On Burying a Chicken at the Farm

On burying a chicken at the farm I worked at the farm with Audrey’s third grade class yesterday. It was the last light-hearted day of Autumn before this arctic frost came; the one that was supposed to arrive after dark tonight, but which came early, catching us without our jackets at noon. It was supposed to be a free day. The kids began by pulling radishes and playing with Gustov, giving each other wheelbarrow rides. Then Audrey and Olivia noticed a bantam not moving. After an anxious half-hour of watching her breath come in shallow gulps, she roused herself one last time and died. It is impossible not to feel the vulnerability of all living things when you bury an animal that weighs maybe two pounds. Her neck wouldn’t stay straight; her legs were curled under her iridescent feathers that caught the light with such radiance I wanted to say, “hush, you are dead, now’s not the time to glimmer.” It was the first handful of dirt we put on her body that made the kids start to cry; something about the permanence of it--I found myself saying, quietly, out of obedience to some higher order, “to dust we have come, to dust we shall return.” Because for the kids it was not just that tiny un-named chicken we were burying; it was their toad and guinea pig and hermit crab, their great-uncle and aunt and grandma. We make these lists, of those we love that have died or will die--and rehearse them at each new passing. I thought we just made them as adults, but of course we began them when we were younger. Clem, who’s father has lung disease and was on the transplant list until recently, said to me on the way back, his eyes shining, “I’ve dug two graves now, I don’t want to dig any more. I had to dig that one with my hands; look--I still have dirt under my finger nails.” What can I say? I know? Because I don’t. I don’t know what it has cost him to dig those graves, as he has considered the people that he loves. Nor do I know which way his father’s illness will go. I would like to say, Its alright, but that’s not a promise I can make. Ben Trueblood said he is not afraid of death, because he has been prepared well by the shape of his education in a Waldorf school in Chicago. And, he suspects, by an engaged observance of the Day of the Dead. Incredulous, I pressed him--are you not afraid of the void of death? The fact that you will be gone and all this will continue? I know my body will be useful, he said, and I don’t know what will happen to my soul, but I don’t fear it. I suppose if I believed this life was a practice run, I would not be afraid of death: if I knew I could have a second chance to do better, to be more wholly human, then I would not be afraid. But now, I do not feel ready to let go. In part my fear comes from shadows of my own making: the habit I have of using my small lamp of truth to project large spectral shadows behind me, making even the good things in my life seem haunted. And I imagine a re-ordering of desires is in order too, though I have only a faint idea of what that means. In the meantime, what if one of the best gifts we can give our children is a proper approach to dying? Steiner believed the ability to approach death without fear begins simply with learning to sleep and breath--coincidentally, two twin pillars of early Waldorf education. Are we then, in seeking a holistic education for our children, teaching them something about dying as well as about living?