'Spread My Ashes in a Circle of the Sun'

Please note: This blog entry includes discussion, in a rather unfiltered manner, of the preservation and disposition of human cremains.

For almost three years, I have been in possession of two sets of ashes: those of my mother and my wife, who died within three months of each other.

In the absence of specific directives, or strongly-held family traditions and customs, it's pretty much up to us what we do with the ashes of our loved ones. There are, of course, numerous ways to store or dispose of cremains, whether putting them in urns, bottles and jars to using them in jewelry, pottery, even creating a coral reef. Cremains are flung into bodies of salt or fresh water, scattered on the ground, flushed down the loo. I had one acquaintance whose ashes were placed in a small chamber at the bottom of a big tankard, so his family and friends could always have a drink with him. And if you don't want to know what Keith Richards is said to have done with his father's ashes, you probably shouldn't look it up.

When I held a Celebration of Life event for my wife two years ago, our family spread some of her ashes around our property. I'd organized a similar event around that time for Mom, but couldn't quite pull together an ashes ceremony, so I'd been waiting for the right time and opportunity to try again.

Having recently cleared out Mom's house, and with its sale imminent, late last month I decided that I'd better get at it. I made plans with my stepmother for her to join me at the house, and she asked if she could bring my father's ashes and those of her mother, with whom Mom had developed a close friendship.

"Let's bring 'em all there," I said.

My idea was to sprinkle ashes at the points of a compass, with the house at the center. Barbara and I started at the west, in the back yard where my wife and I had gotten married; then we moved to the north point, in a little grove where some years ago my mother had arranged for four memory stones -- thin slabs of granite inscribed with the names of her parents, my father and her partner -- to be sunk an inch or two into the ground. (When a real estate agent taking a look at the place wondered whether they were "headstones," I reassured her that, as far as anyone knows, there are no bodies buried on the property. Of course, I can't speak for the Dutch landowners who were around a few centuries ago.)

Barbara and I remarked on the different shades of color in the three sets of ashes: Mom's was light tan, her mother's was white, my father's gray ("He would've called it 'distinguished,'" we agreed).

On the east side, we scattered some more at the edge of a small bush looking up at a giant chestnut tree.

Then we experienced a most fortuitous interruption: the unexpected arrival of one of the prospective new owners, who had brought along some members of his family to look at the place. He and I exchanged a joyous introduction and an animated, jubilant ex parte communication. Then we were off to our respective tasks (we told the new co-owner what we were doing and he fully supported it), and Barbara and I chose a spot at the south point, which looked out onto the meadow and hills.

There were other places I wanted to leave ashes: the Buddhist temple where Mom had gone for meditation and fellowship; the site of the Quaker meeting of which she'd been a member, and clerk; the little park where she attended a peace vigil almost every week for years; the place where she worked when we first moved to the area.

I also wanted to stop by the college where she'd taught for 20 years, which was a little out of my way, but not by much.

The campus was almost completely deserted when I arrived. Just as I parked my car, a security guard pulled up in a golf cart. I steeled myself for a possible confrontation.

Instead, the guy -- his name tag read "Michael" -- asked, "So what's up?" in a mild, distinctly non-authoritative voice.

I explained that my mother had been a faculty member here some years ago, and I wanted to spread a little of her ashes, discreetly. "It could even just be in those bushes over there," I said, pointing to an overgrown patch about 20 yards away.

"Well, let me just ask this," Michael said. "Was your mother a veteran?"

"No, not a veteran," I said, "but she served in her own way."

Michael nodded.

"I have an idea: How about we put 'er by the flagpoles?"

So I followed him to a set of flagpoles arranged triangularly. He parked his cart and got out.

"I don't know if you want to say anything, but I'll just stand over here," he said.

I troweled out a few small amounts of cremains near the center of the triangle and said, "There you go, Mom. Back to work."

As I turned, I saw Michael standing at attention and saluting.

I think that Mom, as a Quaker, would've been simultaneously incredulous, amused and moved by his gesture. Above all, though, she would've known -- as I knew -- that this was Michael's heartfelt way of showing his respect.

I chatted with Michael for a few minutes. He'd been working at the college for more than a decade, doing the night shift, but in recent years switched to the daytime.

We got onto the subject of loss, and he revealed that he too had seen his wife and mother die within a few short months of one another.

"Both times in my arms," he said.

He fished into one of his pockets and showed me a tiny porcelain urn.

"My wife," he said.

We shook hands, wished each other well, and I continued on my rounds.

How do you choose where to spread someone's ashes anyway?

Some choices are obvious, and -- even if they didn't specify as such -- are likely what the deceased would have wanted: their home, both adult and childhood, if possible; their favorite place(s) to visit; an alma mater; the site of what they regarded as an important life milestone.

But other choices may reflect more your assessment of the things which mattered in this person's life. I don't know that Mom would've thought of her first workplace in the area as meaningful enough to receive ashes, given that she was only there for about three years, and the facility has now been significantly repurposed. However, a number of relationships cultivated during that period proved to be enduring and significant, and the experience undoubtedly contributed to her world view.

Then again, I could say the same about the year she spent in Greece as a young woman, her work for VISTA in Alaska, or her assignments with NGOs in Somalia or Afghanistan. Not sure I'm up to traveling to all those places.

Meanwhile, I still have some of my wife's ashes. Obviously, I can just keep them as is, but maybe I should take some to the little town in south Georgia where she spent many childhood summers. The college she graduated from is near me, but while those four years of her life were by no means insignificant, I'm not sure she would consider them ash-worthy. More likely, she'd have preferred Doolin, County Clare, one of the highlights of our 10-day trip to Ireland -- our first significant time together as a couple. A few dashes of ashes outside O'Connor's Pub would have sat very well with her, I'm sure.

Now, here's the thing: I could've easily just kept my mother's cremains intact, since she'd never expressed any desires for where they should be spread. But I simply could not abide selling her house without ensuring that some vestige of her would remain. And if I was going to spread her ashes there, how could I not do so at the college at which she'd worked for roughly half of the period she called this part of New York State home?

If I hadn't followed these impulses at the times I did, I wouldn't have had that wonderful first encounter with the guy who's about to move with his wife and child into my childhood home, nor would I have met Michael and watched him give such a sincere tribute to someone he'd never known. All on the same day.

Chalk it up to fate -- I could've left home much earlier in the day, and I'd almost decided to save the trip to the college for another visit -- or predestination, or higher powers. Whatever. All I know is, the act of honoring a loved one's memory can bring about experiences that enrich our own memories.

Nota bene: The title of this blog entry is taken from a line in the song "Circle of the Sun," by Connecticut singer-songwriter Sally Rogers. You should listen to, and support, her music.

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