I had a vision of Death, and she was beautiful

Finding joy in the season of decay and descent

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“Death smiles at us all; all we can do is smile back.”

~ Marcus Aurelius

I do not have much experience with death in a traditional sense. There have (thankfully and knock wood) been no very tragic losses in my family or among my close friends. In my lifetime I have lost grandparents and great grandparents, but mostly I consider myself lucky to have known them at all. I have lost an uncle whom I hadn’t seen for years prior to his death. I have lost beloved pets, which have honestly been the most keenly felt of partings. 

As someone who spends a lot of time outside in nature and in the places where nature bumps up against the mostly gentle urbanity of my town, I see death all the time in the form of small animals that have met a premature demise naturally, or — more often — as the result of unintentional vehicular homicide. 

My whole life, I have reflexively offered up a wordless prayer to the Wild God each time I encounter an animal who has lost its life on the altar of humanity’s need for speed and propensity for distraction. And each prayer is accompanied by an involuntary shiver that runs up my spine like the touch of a departing spirit.

I know that many of these fallen animals become food for other animals, that — sad as it is — their deaths are just part of the cycle of life, and their loss is another animal’s gain. But there have been a few times when I felt a responsibility to acknowledge and honor the lost life of some small, anonymous creature. 

There was the rabbit that was struck just in front of my house in early spring. It broke my heart to see it lying there, exposed on the cold road where I knew other cars would inevitably render it unrecognizable. So I brought its broken body into my backyard and laid it out with some Valentine’s flowers that had been wilting on my kitchen counter. The body was gone the next day, taken in the night by a local raccoon or fox as was right. But at least I felt like the rabbit’s life had been honored in some small way.

I took a photograph of the rabbit, and — after much consideration — shared it on Instagram. I was worried people would find it too macabre, or just plain weird. Instead, people were touched by the image. One friend was even moved to perform her own rite of remembrance for a fallen bird, an act she wrote about in a lovely piece titled, How to Grieve ~ Lessons from little lives. 

The little rabbit and my friend’s fallen bird.

This time of year death feels like a near-constant companion, but in an oddly comforting way. As the wheel of the year turns and the seasons shift slowly toward winter’s silent reign, the signs of death’s inevitable touch are all around us. Fallen leaves drift like aimless ghosts, rattling along roadsides and huddling in corners. Naked tree limbs reach skeletal hands up to the stars, which appear above us ever earlier as the lifespan of each day grows shorter and shorter.

During this time of decay and descent, death feels less like a spectral horror and more like the rightful belle of the ball — a presence that brings balance and moves the world forward through its cycle.

Of course, the season of the dead — of ghosts and spirits and the thinning of the veil — begins on Samhain, or Halloween. Once upon a time, this season stretched it’s bone-white fingers far into the Christmas season where Victorian parlors echoed with scary stories told around the Yuletide fire. 

Other than Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, the Christmas ghost story never caught on here in the states. Instead, Scottish and Irish traditions relegated such tales to the small window of time at the end of October, reserving December for more saccharine stories of Santa and sugar plum faeries.

Personally, I prefer Halloween to Christmas. I love the pageantry, the costumes, the reveling in the streets after dark. I love the sense of mischief, and the invitation to face our demons and even death with a sense of curiosity rather than fear. And I especially love that — just for one night — we get to become the monsters that wander through our nightmares. 

Last year, I walked the moonlit streets of my little town on stilts, dressed as a four-legged “spirit walker” creature that was very loosely inspired by The Dark Crystal and Princess Mononoke. This year’s costume was more literal — an eleven-foot tall, skull-headed being with crow’s wings and clawed hands. I gave her (for, to me, she was definitely female) a crown of silver and feathers, and I decked her out in a garland of black roses accented with blossoms of gold and red. There was fringe and fabric patterned with spider-web designs, and there was glitter … so much glitter. 

She was my own vision of death, and I thought she was beautiful. 

My own Lady Death. Perhaps not as seductive as Aubrey Plaza’s character in Agatha All Along, but lovely to me nonetheless.

I have always been intrigued by the different pop-culture personifications of death. From Joe Black to Bill and Ted’s game-playing adversary to the many incarnations of Sandman’s Death of the Endless, the way writers and artists imagine this most universal of forces is fascinating. The most recent addition to this pantheon of characters is Lady Death from Agatha All Along. 

Played by Aubrey Plaza, this version of death refers to herself as “the original Green Witch,” revealing that in addition to having the power to take life, she can also create it. Much like the Hindu god Shiva, who is both creator and destroyer, Lady Death appears to embody a duality that is ultimately about transformation and balance. This juxtaposition is also a reminder that in the same way the darkness makes the stars shine more brightly, an awareness of death makes life more vibrant. 

With its flower-bedecked skull and glittering mantle, this year’s Halloween costume garnered much attention from both children and adults alike. I was delighted that the compliment I heard most often was not how frightening our creation was, but how beautiful it was.

Encounters with children

My favorite interaction of the evening was when a tiny girl of maybe four or five approached, craning her neck for a better look at the glowing eyes and bared teeth of the character that towered above where I stood, hidden behind layers of fabric. When her parents asked, she turned dutifully to have her picture taken. And then, after one last look up at the ghostly face, she spun on her heel and dashed off into the crowd, letting loose a wildly unbridled cackle that seemed far too feral for any human child. It was as if the Universe had revealed a secret to her, and the knowledge had made her just a little bit mad — in the best way possible.

I do not have much experience with death, nor do I wish to become intimately familiar with her any time soon. And yet, I cannot help but wonder if cultivating a relationship with death isn’t the best way to fully embrace life. After all, it is only by realizing how brief our time is that we can find the courage to live the life we truly desire. 

Meandering through these thoughts brought to mind an animated short that I first saw years ago, and which I’d like to share with you now. “The Life of Death” is a hand-drawn work by Dutch artist Marsha Onderstijn that shows what might happen if Death fell in love with life. The wordless tenderness of the story never fails to do my heart good. I hope it does the same for you.