It’s been a full winter. Spring is here and much has happened since the last Jeremiah Commons newsletter. I hope that, since then, you’ve had time to rest with loved ones and found warmth amid the cold. Those of you on a patch of Earth closer to the Sun will be enjoying consistent warmth about now. We’re due for some warmth and sun today here in southern MI.
We’ve had a few opportunities to share about conservation burial and Jeremiah Commons over the last few months. A couple of pics from some of those events are posted below. If you’d like to host or organize a gathering, whether a large gathering or a small home one, please let me know here. Jeremy (one of our board members) or I will be sharing about JC and natural burial in April at Live Well Plan Well, an end-of-life planning event hosted by the Michigan Deathcare Collective. Attendees will leave with an end-of-life planning binder. You can find out more here.
Last month, I was lucky to be a part of a panel during a local gathering on the topic of birth and death. Speaking on the topic of death, and responding to wise words of a birth doula from the upper peninsula, I was reminded of a simple truth:
The first moment in nearly all of our lives was the softness of a mother’s embrace as we fed, as we took in part of the world. Regardless of whether you were breastfed or bottle fed, someone held you tenderly, affectionately, as they drew near, and held your upper lip just right to make sure you could eat. They helped you as you took in the air and nutrients around you—took in part of our world. First breath; first meal. Cradled in the arms of your mother, father, or loved one, you were helpless. Couldn’t do a thing except let yourself be cared for. You needed clean air, clean soil. Our bellybuttons are helpful reminders of the fact that we were brought into this world inherently reliant on the nourishment of another body—one intimately connected with our own.
At the end of our lives we are similarly helpless. We need those who loved us in life to tenderly draw near, care for us, and lay us into the arms of Mother Earth. I often wonder if, before modern times, it was easier to have these two poles of our lives—birth and death—front of mind. In tightly knit communities, we’re faced with the uncomfortable truth that “I need you” and “you need me.” The “I-need-you-ness” seems a harder pill to swallow these days. But how might having more present reminders of these poles of our lives, the reliance upon the tender aid of those around us, change the way we live in the in-between? How might it change the way we relate to neighbors?
In reflecting on the chores of winter, Adam Wilson, a writer and farmer in upstate New York offers a striking illustration of this intergenerational connectedness, the “I-need-you-ness” we might re-embody:
Last month, as I shoveled the snow from my ninety-two-year-old neighbor’s steps, he said to me, “Adam, you don’t have to do this.” I replied, “I think I do, Pat. If the teens and the twenty-somethings stop seeing the forty-somethings looking after the ninety-somethings, how will they remember to look after me when I’m your age?”
How might remembering the poles of our lives change the way we relate to the land? In taking in the air and the nutrients around us at first birth, our bodies do the work, and the people around us merely stand by to aid in the magic. But there is no magic without clean air and clean soil. Throughout our lives, that magic becomes mundane, and we forget that the everyday miracles of breathing and eating require land, air, and water that isn’t hoarded, spoiled, and commodified. The sacredness of these gifts becomes lost to the ledgers and to-do lists of the day.
In creating a conservation cemetery and land commons, our aim at Jeremiah Commons is to create a space where the land can be set apart as a gift for all. A space where families and friends can grieve loss as their loved one nourishes the land that nourished them. A space where friends and strangers can connect with the soil and with each other. No matter where you’re from, how you identify yourself, or how the world identifies you, the giftedness of that land will be for you.
Not only will it be a space to return to the soil from which we come, but the space, trails, and designated areas will allow all people from womb to tomb to delight in the created world. A space for children to frolic, birdwatching tours, hands on nutrition education, and life-giving celebrations all on permanently protected land. Perhaps these spaces might remind us of the “I-need-you-ness” of doing life on this planet, and help us better relate to friend and stranger.
In about one week, Shari and I are expecting our third child. When he arrives, Shari will take him into her gentle loving arms. His first moments will be nurtured and sustained by that life-giving embrace. Birth is front of mind for us right now. But we’re also aware of friends, acquaintances, and strangers across the globe, who have the other pole so present in their lives. May you be kind and gentle to those around you.
Our board has decided that, in this next season, as I graduate from law school and our family grows, the vision for Jeremiah Commons might be that of a dormant seed. A seed with the energy it needs to burst forth with life, once the right soil conditions arrive. Spring is coming. It’s practically here.
For Jeremiah Commons, the right soil conditions look like, quite literally, the right soil—finding the right land in which to plant this vision. We’re in conversation with partners about land, but if you have land in Jackson or Washtenaw county, or know of someone that might be willing to partner, you can reach out by replying to this email. If you’d like to support our efforts to start this conservation cemetery and land commons, you can do so through a financial gift or other means, here.
Your time reading this letter is greatly appreciated. I’m grateful for you and the support JC has already received.
May you find ways to attend to the poles of life this season may bring your way.
Much obliged,
Tony
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