My formal death education began in 2005 while walking a dog in a local cemetery. I stumbled upon an open grave and was surprised to see a large concrete box with drain holes lying inside. Confused, I started asking questions. Was this concrete liner a standard practice in modern cemeteries? It was.

I realized I had little knowledge of how we tended to our dead. Like many people I only thought about death when I was forced to by some life event or in stories. At that time, I thought our only choices were to be embalmed and buried in a casket in a conventional cemetery or be cremated.

I remember scanning the vast, headstone-laden hillside of that cemetery and imagining a city’s worth of concrete, metals, and embalming fluids just below the well-watered and immaculate lawn. As someone who deeply cares for the health of the planet, and also a big fan of cemeteries, this shook me deeply. How long would it take our family members to become a part of the earth again? Were these really our only choices? I wanted to learn.

My graduate school program supported my developing understanding by green-lighting a final project that would highlight the relationships Oregonians have with death care. Much of my research focused on state and local regulations, as well as the choices and accessibility to our desired options. The discussions and interviews I conducted not only moved me, but they helped me to realize that we are sorely missing conversations about death in our lives. Most of those I interviewed were unaware of their legal options, or misunderstood what was safe and legally permissible, such as refusing embalming, keeping a deceased family member at home after death, conducting a home funeral and even backyard burial.

This project helped a family in Yamhill County hold a home funeral and backyard burial shortly after it was completed.

In the years that followed, I looked for ways to weave death and dying into the earth-based education I did with youth and adults outside, usually in small, practical ways. This most often looked like creating space for brave conversation when we found dead animals in the woods, took an animal’s life on the farm or while fishing, or discussing colonial genocide while practicing ancestral skills. They started there and often took unexpected paths.

Just a few years before the pandemic shifted our society’s awareness of mortality to a daily, more palpable experience, I started pursuing an education in End-of-Life(EOL) community care. Although it overlapped with some of my earlier learning, it expanded into new territory that can be more complex, often messy, and also deeply rooted into the very foundations of our nation.

The early years of the pandemic opened up more opportunities to raise awareness of grief, death and End-of-Life choices. Covid also shined light on our failings as a society to care for those in the margins and the many people who die alone each year, many unclaimed and in poverty. It also helped many people realize there were many things they could do in advance of their death, or the death of someone they love, that would ease the burden of decision-making or suffering. Having conversations about our wishes, gathering important paperwork, or understanding our End of Life options in advance can all help.

One thing is certain, however, and it’s that we can’t predict the future or even be sure that our planning will be useful when we’re finally faced with death. We can, however, come to understand how we relate to death now, and allow this awareness to enhance our relationships in the present. Learning to ride the waves of discomfort that may accompany this growing awareness has the potential to strengthen our families and communities while we’re still alive, and better align ourselves with the life and death we’d like to experience.

The teachers who shared their wisdom of conflict utilization in the face of uncertainty and discomfort, during my early years of exploring death, are a huge reason I can do this work and I encourage anyone out there to start having conversations if they haven’t started already. Start small, and see where it leads. You may be surprised.