What Nana thinks in the middle of the night

Life without death and happiness without misery are contradiction and neither can be found alone, because each of them is a different manifestation of the same thing. Swami Vivekananda.

I think about dying a lot. It's not something you want to bring up in social situations, but my best friends and family all know that I have some very strong ideas about my death and burial. A few years ago I read Death: The Final Stage of Growth, by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, and it got me started. I don't think I had ever thought about my death before, except in vague, ethereal terms.
I have been thinking about my Dad's death and some of the traditions that were observed as we mourned him. He died suddenly when I was in Australia on holiday. By the time I got home, he was ensconced in our neighbour/friend/Bishop's living room in an open casket. I wasn't too happy about this, because I had never seen a dead body before and I definitely did not like seeing my Dad dead. And I couldn't avoid it. We had a sweet memorial service in that living room, which was packed with friends who told stories about Dad. Right next to his dead body. I believe the "body in the living room" thing is a Maori custom, and while it was kind of our friends to honour him thus, it felt kind of creepy to me.
After reading about death and burial customs in America, I saw how the status quo is not necessarily logical, functional, or helpful. So, I have developed a picture in my mind of how I want to be remembered and mourned.
Here is how the scenario goes:
No embalming.
Put me in a plain pine box.
Or, if my views get more radical as I age, a shroud.
No viewing, for the family or the public.
No makeup. Just dress me and close the box.
Lots of singing and funny stories at the service. Tell of my good deeds and how much I loved life and dessert and my family and friends. Tell of my adventures. Tell how I was annoying and scary and bossy. Tell it all. But don't be boring and long-winded.
At the graveside, NO FAKE GRASS. Just an big old open hole and the coffin.
Lower the coffin while everyone's still there. Sing something moving while it's going down.
Everybody gets to throw dirt and flowers on the grave.

There.
The old girl's dead.
Now let's get on with life.

Remember, we already have our burial plots up on the mountain. My wishes are now part of the public record and I expect them to be followed.

My point in all this is twofold. First, to eliminate all the unnecessary expense that traditionally goes into the process of being put in the ground. Second, I want the people who love me to really know that I'm gone and to experience every part of the process. It's a requisite part of grieving and is often bypassed by the somewhat sterile traditions to which we have become accustomed. You can disguise the hole in the ground, but it's still there, and perhaps it is better to acknowledge it.

So, there is a happiness component of this post.
I've been reading an intriguing book called "The Geography of Bliss", by Eric Weiner.


Eric describes himself as a grumpy man. While researching material for his book, he visited several countries that rank particularly high or low in the World Database of Happiness. Believe it or not, there is such a place, it's in Rotterdam. One of these countries was Bhutan, a tiny monarchy with one major road in the Himalayas. Bhutan actually has, instead of the Gross National Product, Gross National Happiness. Yes, happiness is a national policy.
Eric is told by a Bhutanese intellectual that he needed to think about death for five minutes every day in order to cure his melancholia. This idea resonates with me. In our Western culture we are removed from death until it touches us personally, and then we have no immunity to its ravages. Death is the human condition, none will escape it, and we need to be ready for the moment we cease to exist in this sphere. While my thinking through my own death may be an attempt to exert control even after I'm gone (and my children will tell you that this is probably the reason) it is also my way of strengthening myself for the eventual outcome.
This I do know. Thinking about death doesn't make me unhappy, so maybe there's something to it.