The Ceremony of Living and Dying

Altar created by my beautiful Auntie

The darkness is returning as we slip through the seasons toward the long nights of winter. The world grows quieter, and the veil is thin.

Within this yearly cycle of light and dark that we are bound to through the seasons, there is also a call to honor the constant changing in our lives and bodies. Longer nights create space for more internal time — reflection, writing, and prayer. The seasonal arc of deep time — slow time.

Lighting the Candle

I sat last night at my altar and lit a candle for my ancestors. No grand ritual, just an arrival — my body sitting on the cushion, my spine straight, my breath flowing.

Speaking to my old ones from my heart, I let them know they have not been forgotten. That their work in this world matters. That I understand I am on the receiving end of all of their toil, hardship, and joy.

The Womb of Death

Five years ago, on Day of the Dead, my beloved uncle John took his last breath. My auntie, my cousin, and I had been tending him around the clock for two weeks as he slowly made his entry into the next world.

Though I have walked beside families as they navigate the dying process of their loved ones many times in my elder-care work, this was my first experience being with someone through their entire death process. The beauty of this womb of death — yes, beauty — marked me and opened me so profoundly that I will be forever changed.

Magic and Ceremony

The days preceding his death were filled with magic. The four of us — his three carers and the man himself — were enclosed in some small universe, a field created by love, spirit, and the work we were doing together.

My auntie has a natural inclination toward ceremony, and even in her grief she knew that the way we were to approach her beloved’s dying time held great power. She crafted a beautiful altar on the dresser; candles burned around the clock, fresh flowers adorned the space, soft music played. There was no specific plan — rather, we all moved like the turning of the tide, taking turns sitting at his bedside, speaking words of love, crawling into bed beside him, stroking his soft white beard.

Songs for Letting Go

My auntie and I have both sung with Threshold Choirs — community choirs created to use music to help people during their dying time. Women from the Taos choir came, and we stood around his bed, softly singing songs of letting go. Songs of being carried. Of leaving behind this world of flesh and moving into the world of spirit.

Whatever that may be. Whatever that means. Which none of us really know — because we are entirely wrapped up in mystery.

The Man of Integrity

My uncle was a man of integrity, wisdom, brilliance, and great soul. A physicist, a builder, a father, a lover, a spiritual seeker — a man who embodied truth and joy.

My auntie once asked him, after his Parkinson’s diagnosis, if he was afraid of dying. His reply: “No, my molecules are just going to be rearranging.” This was the wide-angle view he held of life. Death was another adventure. And yet, leaving is still so hard.

Words of Love

For the first days, he was still conscious — taking in the world around him, receiving our care and words of love. I sat beside him one evening, holding his large hand, and opened my heart to tell him everything he meant to me.

I told him how loved I felt by him — how, in his presence, I always felt like the only person in the world. His love that intense, that spellbinding. I told him how much I appreciated his wild stories about the universe and mathematics — how he pushed me beyond my limits, guiding me into realms of understanding I never would have reached on my own.

I told him how grateful I was for how he loved and cared for my daughter — his and my auntie’s unending generosity offering us experiences that made our lives richer and fuller. I told him that I believed his ancestors were proud of him — waiting to call him home, to bring him close again.

I let the tears flow down my face, as they are now as I write these words. I let my heart break right in front of him, pouring out my words of praise and sorrow. I wanted him to know how much he mattered. And how much I would miss him. That there would be a John-shaped hole in the world, and that he would not be forgotten.

The Final Blessing

When the moment finally came and he took his last breath, we gathered around him. We blessed him with smoke and songs, anointed his body with oil and prayers, and dressed him in his beautiful handmade Mexican wedding suit — embroidered with flowers and birds, somehow still fitting him perfectly.

There was sorrow. So much sorrow. I will never forget the cries of anguish on my auntie’s face, the way she crawled into bed beside his cooling body, cradling her love in her arms. And yet — there was tenderness. Even joy.

We knew he would not want to live in a body unable to move or swallow. He would not want to live a diminished life. He was free now — free from form and suffering, free to explore whatever lies beyond this mortal world.

Awakening the Ceremonialist

In many ways, walking beside my uncle in his dying time awakened the ceremonialist in me. I found that prayers flowed from my lips with ease, that I had an innate sense of how to honor the ending of a life, and that I could stay present with the pain of my loved ones in that household. Something sparked in me — and that spark keeps growing.

A Vision Quest

A year later, I sat for four days and four nights with an empty belly on the canyon edge above the Rio Chama, praying with all my might for guidance — to know the meaning of my life, and what I was to do with the gifts I had been given.

It was in that vision fast that it became crystal clear:

“It is in the work of holding ceremony that everything I have to give comes together.”

All my paths of learning, the stories I carry, the songs in my heart, the way I can gather people and hold them close — they all belong in ceremony. For the first time, I felt that I made sense. That my satchel of gifts had a place to come home to — a place of belonging and honor.

Growing into the Work

Ever since that autumn ceremony in 2021, I have been slowly courting the ceremonialist that lives within me. Studying the art of council — how to draw others into ceremony and hold them safely, mirroring stories to help others see the depth of their own beauty and power.

I’ve facilitated women’s circles, taught workshops, and engaged in a daily practice of courting my own soul and wild woman. I have been blessed with mentorship, a community of care that upholds me, and a deep knowing that this is the work I am meant to do in the world.

The Thread of Becoming

I can see clearly now the thread that runs through my life — from a childhood steeped in faith and early transcendent experiences of the divine, to an adolescence and young adulthood fraught with challenge and addiction, to arriving now as a grown woman with both blessings and burdens that have taught me how to stand strong as who I truly am.

This process of becoming, I believe, is the work of a lifetime.

Turning Toward the Darkness

As the sun fades and the Oregon rains settle in, I turn toward the darkness with an open heart and a deep bow to the mystery. A prayer that this winter will be a womb — a place where I can root down and grow deeper into the truth of my own becoming.

I feel my ancestors around me, singing:

“Keep going — we are with you — become all the beauty that you are.”

The Spiral Path

There are no shortcuts when it comes to living the life the soul longs for. We have to show up, cultivate the willingness to stay in the darkness as long as necessary, and listen for the still, small voice inside calling us forward.

I lean into my ancestors for support. I know they have survived hardships I cannot even conceive of. I know that I am their dream come true — and this gives me strength.

Strength to continue walking the spiral path that leads me deeper into myself and into my work in the world. There is no hurry. Life will keep holding me until my body drops.

Until then, I will follow the path where it leads.
I will sit in the ceremony of my life, in honor of all that I am, all that I came from, and all I am becoming.

— Marianna Iverson
Seeds of the Sacred