The death dreamers
Maybe you know, maybe you don't, but Osiris died twice.
The first time, he was tricked by a brother and sent down the river.
Isis, wild with grief, wandered alone in search of her beloved. All the way from Abydos to the mouth of the sea, and into Byblos, where she found his body and set about returning them both home to heal.
Magic, she was. Magic, she wielded. She pulled his life force from the underworld and it began to fill his mortal flesh slowly. She was determined to outwit death, and in her resistance to its power, she failed to see the emerging destiny taking shape like a cloud in his auric field.
She left Osiris resting in a hidden cave, far from the palace and the seeking spies of their enemy, Set. She ran to the halls of the great stone temples, calling for her sister and nephew to make haste and assist her. Resurrection of a god required more than she held in her own two hands.
Back to the caves, but when they arrived, Osiris was slain once more. This time, torn into 14 pieces to ensure his demise, thrown into the Nile and carried off by the currents, away from life and away from Isis.
This time, death came calling but Isis did not resist. Her search became a pilgrimage, and each found piece marked the ground of a new temple, honoring the spirit and power of Osiris across the black land.
The search had shifted, from panic and compulsion to return life to what once was, into an urgency to retrieve the lost pieces and midwife what was to become, for Osiris, for herself, for her land and people.
Once all parts were finally gathered, the ritual began once more in another hidden cave, with the healer gods in attendance. Osiris was sung over, wept over, loved and sanctified, and his father the earth and his mother the sky breathed eternity over his spirit as his body was received into the soil below. Osiris had met his destiny, and moved on to his own patchwork in the belly of the underworld, renewing the earth, greening the crops, rousing the waters with the turning of seasons.
Isis, too, moved into her next, seeking the destiny laid out for her from within her spirit, no longer wife but mother-to-be and goddess-becoming.
Death comes calling over and over again. Mostly, we resist. But it always returns, and if we are wise, we will receive it with honor, serve it tea at our table, and sit quietly until it is ready to speak.
. . . . .
I had a dream, years ago now, that I was working in the intolerably hot kitchen of a small food stall somewhere in ancient Asia, at the foot of the Himalayas. I wore next to nothing because of the heat of the fires I cooked over. Only some slim nod to modesty kept the rags on my thin body, as I rushed to keep up with the demand of the owner and customers I served.
Suddenly, an old woman appeared in the doorway and stared at me without greeting. She was bundled for winter weather, in many layers, with a pack strapped to her side and a walking stick in her hand. She was ancient yet vital, quite old but strong. Her fierce eyes pinned me in such a way that I couldn't look away.
"It's time to go" she declared, and I knew that I was meant to follow her into the mountains. I stuttered and gasped, unsure how to follow when I was obligated to remain where I was and complete this endless task for the whole of my life. I wasn't dressed for the mountains, and I had no provisions or supplies for such a journey, and I did not know who this woman was, or what we would do when we got to wherever we were going.
But I could see that none of that mattered to her. I made some uncertain noise about the rags that I wore, but she dismissed my concern with a flick of her wrist, and announce crept into her eyes and voice when she said as she turned to go, "Suit yourself".
A flood of panic washed over my senses and I knew without a single doubt that this was my one and only chance to reach for something other, something greater than what I already knew. I may die of exposure, or perhaps she held extra clothing in her pack. I may be lost in the mountains, starve or die of dehydration, be murdered in my sleep or torn apart by wild animals. All these things were possibilities, but I knew in that moment that if I did not follow the old woman up the mountain, I would slowly wither and die in that tiny kitchen.
I had just enough time to race after her, clearing the doorway, before I woke, my heart racing.
. . . . .
Every leap is a death; every death, a leap. They hold the chasms and unknowns in common. Whether lifting off or dropping down, the thin air is an empty companion that rushes in to claim every drop of blood, freezing it for that split second of icy anticipation.
The knowing of the Next is irrelevant in the Now. Only the fully embodied experience of disembarking exists in the doorways and cliff edges of Death and her abrupt, unnerving gaze.
"You must leave it behind," she nods behind you.
"What?" you ask, seeking clarification.
"All of it," she is turning before the words have been completely uttered.
Now you understand the sensation of falling in dreams. They were practice for the meditations of the dying, not dead. The sick feeling in the belly is the holding on, the desperate last bid for control before inevitability sweeps the solid ground away.
You see now that death is not dead, and dying is not death. When you relinquish the dying struggle, death moves in gracefully, beautifully, even. She comes to your table and sings the resurrection songs, waking you up to what is true and what you are ready to live into.
Death is the dream invitation to follow the old woman up the mountain path. Death is the initiation that sends Osiris to his destiny, and Isis to her sovereign throne. It is a circuitous journey, and it is not safe nor tame. But it is holy, and resurrection is its sacred medicine.
We who seek a deeper way are the death dreamers, calling in guides and ancestors who have gone before us into that unknown wood, dissolving into soil and sky, being remade into invisible teachers who whisper secrets into our ears.
We are the daughters and sisters of Isis, who summon the resurrection song and sing it tremulously over our own flesh and bone, sitting deeply in the lap of uncertainty and loss, faith and fear, determined to be heard by the angels and gods.
We are the wise ones who leap the great leaps, choosing to trust in invisible wings and invisible nets, daring to become something truer, something deeper, something more authentic.