The Bee’s Knees
Just the other day, down here at the end of Saguache County Road T, we had a “sprinter storm” blow in and it let fall the white moisture flakes, and a good many of them; say, up to 5-6 inches of the white stuff. A “sprinter storm” is a winter snow storm that occurs in springtime. This term is in a lexicon of my favorite terms, most of which are of southern origin, some of which we made up during surgeries in operating rooms to try to describe extraordinary situations for which proper adjectives were out of reach, and the rest of which are just….
Well, another of my favorite terms is “the Bee’s Knees.” I was introduced to this term by my friend Katie Getchell during a Rolfing session she was applying to my fascia cellular memory bank. Katie is a Bee’s Knees quality Rolfer. She also is a masterful belly dancer, which a number of the ladies in Crestone accompany her in. See http://www.crestonetribal.com/tv2011.html, and there you will learn about one more wonderful Crestone happening.
This term, the Bee’s Knees, is used to signify anything that is of the highest excellence. I find myself using this term more and more. My increased use of the term may reflect my shifting inner life perspectives, despite ongoing disturbing views of a very troubled world. The term has been used all over the country since the 1920’s. You might think it is the title of some kind of autobiography book about living in the South, and that is not far off either. The Bee’s Knees usually denotes some type of incredible experiential phenomenon, or person, which arrives in one’s life.
My son Colin expands on the real meaning of The Bee’s Knees in a recent email: “On the Bee’s Knees: as I’m sure you know, the bee’s knees actually refers to bee’s knees, which are the receptacle for pollen and the mode of transport for such. That is why it is used metaphorically to indicate something of excellence. Also, the bee’s knees is a cocktail, and a delicious one, in which fresh lavender and honey are mixed into a syrup with hot water, which is then allowed to cool and subsequently is mixed with gin and fresh lemon juice over ice. It is delicious and I often order it at establishments of the level of quality where one would expect such a fine drink.”
Thank you Colin.
I had a Bee’s Knees type of experience back in late February when I attended a funeral ceremony put on by The Crestone End of Life Project (CEOLP) for my friend and client Greg, who passed peacefully at his home a few days prior. One of Greg’s passions was assisting in a unique service which our small community offers its inhabitants. You can read all about it at www.crestoneendoflifeproject.org.
CEOLP is a non denominational community based group of kind hearted local folks who promote informed end-of-life choices for individuals, their family members, and loved ones, and they support the fulfillment of these choices. Crestone is the only community in the United States which offers open air cremation to its inhabitants as one option of compassionate care for the body of the deceased. One has to have lived here for at least 3 months in order to be considered a Crestonian who is entitled to receive this beautiful ritual and treatment. CEOLP has been years in the making with all sorts of improvements, legal approval, county and state approval, EPA approval, etc.
Greg’s former wife and his 2 grown up sons were there, and I got to meet them and weep a bit with them. We exchanged words about his loving nature. Meanwhile his deceased body was burning on an open pyre, his former physical friend being released into the fire and air to become one with all once more.
A group of more than 30 of us had gathered at a gravel pathway at 7AM on a cold cloudy morning. Snow clouds were gathering and a steady stiff wind blew in from the south. We were attired in ordinary Crestone garb, which is anything but fancy. I had on my Elmer Fudd lambskin pull over hat, and some boots, and everything ripstop and Carhartt in between. The fire and bone tender, a slender elder lady of elegance and stature, named Stephanie, was in her camo pants stuffed into boots, and so forth. It’s Crestone Casual.
We lined up along either side of a 5 foot wide gravel pathway, where each of us was handed a bough of juniper. A small pick-up truck pulled up, bearing a group of men in the cargo bay who flanked a simple hand made elegant wooden stretcher bearing Greg’s carefully washed and shrouded body. The pallbearers were these men, and two of them were Greg’s sons. The litter was borne up the gravel walkway, and we all fell in line with the wind at our backs.
The procession approached a circled enclosure from its gated north side. The enclosure was provided by stretches of green, yellow, and red plastic screen cloth mounted on tall wooden fence posting. This screening acted as a partial wind brake, and allowed a sense of enclosure and closeness and privacy.
The pyre is constructed of Aeroblock, lined on its inside with fire brick, and its outside is covered with a simple stucco coating. It is about 4 feet wide by 8 feet in length, and stands about 3-4 feet high. The firewood is fed in from both of the open long ends, as well as from 2 smaller feed ports located midway along each side of the pyre’s walls.
The grate which receives the litter is constructed of cross pieces of 2 inch cast iron welded by a local welder. The grate is made in 3 pieces which allows for easier removal owing to the weight factor of 260 pounds of metal. The metal cross pieces begin to bow enough after the heat of about 8 fires that the whole grate assembly must be replaced. We contemplate grate construction from stainless steel, which would last longer, but would be more expensive. The grate stands about 2 feet off the ground, and underneath the grate, the lengths of wood are carefully arranged and placed.
The litter bearing Greg’s body was slid onto the grate, and each of us placed our juniper boughs on top of his shrouded form. Each of us then took up more pieces of wood (ponderosa pine, lodgepole pine, pinon), and we covered his body with these logs.
We all stepped back a distance of about 6 feet to the other side of a rock circle which girdles the pyre, and inside of which stacks of logs are made available to the loving and efficient fire tenders who constantly feed the fire. The odors of sage and incense circle about. The ceremony embraces all spiritual paths in its simple solemnity and practicality and tradition.
This ambience of solemnity and dignity and power and awe and respect is then embraced by the wind. Greg’s sons step forward with torches ablaze. With courage, dignity, and greatness they place the torches into the logs beneath the body of their father. The pyre is kindled, the logs begin to combust, and the flame and smoke are announced to the persistent wind which carries the ethereal signature to the north.
The body of the deceased is completely covered with logs, and cannot be discerned beneath the pile of wood which discretely covers all. I stand at the open end of the pyre where his head is resting. The blaze begins to rise high in the wind. The black smoke carrying his carbonaceous particulate physical essence has no time to linger with us, as the wind hurries it along in a growing billowing stream.
People who knew Greg begin to speak about his life, and offer readings. I am speechless as my eyes fill with tears, awestruck as my heart expands. I see his skull becoming visible through some parted logs, glowing white in an orange blaze. The fire tenders gently cover it with more logs. Pieces of vertebrae and other bony elements fall through the grates as they emerge in the fire’s power, unrestrained by former flesh connections which are transformed into the dense gaseous counterpart, moving up the valley in a steady stream.
What words are inside of me? What am I allowing myself to feel? I quietly scan my inner psychic and physical terrain, breathing in and out to an ongoing silent mantra of the breath of my life. As I do so, a friend of mine steps forward to speak with me. His name is Guy, and along with Stephanie, and her brother Gregory, Guy and others help out with the CEOLP effort.
Guy simply and casually starts talking about how it goes with cremations in India. He explains that wood is a rather scarce item there, and that this results in expensive cremations, which often are not completed since the money and the firewood only go so far. I come out of my meditation to register the commentary of my friend with the thought of how fortunate we Crestonians are in so many ways.
It takes about a third of a cord of wood to complete a Crestone cremation at 8000 feet above sea level. For the unknowing, a cord of wood is a tight packed pile measuring 8 feet by 4 feet by 4 feet, or, it is 128 cubic feet of wood. It’s useful to know these things, especially when you heat your more, or less, insulated home with so much of a cord of firewood, or cremate your friend with so much of a cord of firewood. People who sell firewood sell by the “face,” the half cord, the full cord, etc.
A typical cremation takes 3-4 hours to complete, open air style. Most folks don’t stay all the way through, but wander off after paying respects, as is their hearts’ wish.
I look about at my companions who have gathered to offer their respect and love. People are congregating in small groups, talking to each other in low tones, gazing into the fire as it is lovingly tended. They speak about ordinary Crestone things. They seem very aware of the moment, as pieces of bones are pulled into the growing bed of coals, nudged through the grates by gravity’s pull.
It is yet one more time to have one of those organic Crestone conversations about anything on one’s mind. Greg was like that also. He cried a lot with me, opening and releasing his Grief Box in his final days, just as it would come up, natural style, in a flow of a stream of consciousness.
People move closer in towards the warmth of the fire. The snow clouds are gathering, the wind is biting. I cinch up my scarf and hat. Our little community draws in to the warmth, and we celebrate a liberated life.
As loved ones offer their words and readings, I ponder a recent quandary in my life, all the while meditating on fire, bones, cold, warmth, words being spoken, my feet in my boots, my warm goofy head covering, the secretions coming from my nose and my eyes which I wipe away. The sky is about to release white flakes of snow downward. The pyre is about to release white flakes of ash upward.
I ponder and then silently ask a question into this ceremony. It is a question about what is the best way to reach the trust and friendship of a group of people to whom I have attempted to extend myself over the past several years, but had always been met with impasse. How can I gain their trust and friendship to “loosen the knots of their hearts?” I release the question into the wind.
Another friend comes forward, and we stand close to the fire. He is a physician, and is a very kind, sensitive, and open person. He has the appearance of a middle aged Jewish male from NYC. He wears thick eyeglasses. His perspicuity is all the more enhanced by a wizard-like observation of something which is occuring with the skeletal remains of the deceased body.
In the place where some of the long bones of the left arm are exposed, one of the bones makes its way through the grates. My friend speaks with some urgency about this observation, “Oh, it looks like a long bone!” With this remarkable pronouncement from one physician to another, I arise from my reverie into full mundane consciousness., and standard brain beta rhythm.
The comment is a mixture of one of those “Ah Ha!” moments, and one of those moments of morbid curiosity. It is a natural and spontaneous aspect of this experience, a part of the whole that we are all participating in.
The comment feels neither insensitive, nor out of place or context. This is Crestone, after all, and we are outside cremating a body, an unusual type of event which might lend itself to ”freedom of speech.” It all adds up into the organic wholeness of the moment. Crestone is like that.
I think to myself, “Ah yes, an accurate anatomical identification of a burning body part, observed.” He and I had journeyed through medical school to learn how to observe and offer educated opinions about such things, and yes, there is a time and a place for the definition of all matters of the flesh. I laugh inwardly at myself. I am thinking too much, again.
I walk to the other end of the pyre where Greg’s feet once lay. Stephanie is stooping down to collect some foot and ankle fragments from the ash pile with a miniature garden rake, which she rakes into a pile, and then collects this pile into an ordinary dustpan. The collected pieces are then taken aside and added to a growing pile of similar remains to be given to the family the next day.
It is all so straightforward, familiar, simple, efficient, and respectfully dignified. It is so releasing. One yearns to feel unencumbered by the fabricated shackles we create in our life journey. Freedom.
Another CEOLP assistant comes forward. His name is Paul. I believe he is Danish, or maybe it can be acknowledged that Paul is a transplanted northern European. He is a giant wrapped in a shawl. I welcome Paul because he is a giant wrapped in a shawl, and moreover, he just speaks his Heart. A large body wrapped in a shawl that speaks from its Heart is a comfort on a cold day. He must be warm inside, yes?
He talks to Greg’s sons and me about how the pyre is constructed, the Aeroblock, the grates, the ongoing upkeep. It was Paul who studied how to perform outside cremations some 12 years ago in other places, and it is he who brought this gained knowledge and experience into our Cretone End of Life Project. Good man, gratitude, yes.
Meanwhile, the growing pile of coals is being pushed with specially welded pushers into the center of the pyre. Only a few bones remain on the grate now, and more logs are added on to help the process along. They are long bones, moreover, and I am sure they once were part of an extremity of my friend’s body, but I have lost touch with the nomenclature definition mode of my past.
The wind has stilled now, and snow is beginning to fall straight down. White ash from the fire has accumulated, and is beginning to rise straight up. The white ash flakes and the snow flakes are the same size, I notice, about half a centimeter across, easily visible. About 4 feet above the final resting place of where the intact body once lay, the ash and snow flakes merge into each other, and both seem to vanish into a portal of nothingness above the pyre, just between my heart and eye level.
The snow is melting onto the ash, and the ash is then being dissolved by the snow water. I am now immersed in a Zen like knowing of the inseparable and diaphanous nature of everything around me. In the background arise the great Sangre de Cristo peaks, which ground me. All is quiet. The Now is clicking its cosmic tumblers….I suddenly recall my prior quandary question. I feel an answer presciently, immanently. My heart is fully open as I gaze into the zone of airspace where ash and snowflake disappear into one another.
A Bee’s Knees moment is arriving in the unspeakable silent eternity of a moment of truth. We experience these moments in our journey, but we consciously know so little of their full mystery inside of the chambers of our Heart. The ineffable. Definitions, judgments, scintillations of meaning and left brain thinking and rationalized intelligence, the limitations of words, our life efforts, are all offered up from the fire of our lives like the ash floating upward to Father Sky.
Down come the full flakes from Father Sky, and where the two meet is born the empty essence of a moment of creative eternity. It feels like the Mother. She constantly recreates Herself to know Herself through Her own Creation.
Out of this captivating silence a presence from my past makes his voice heard inside my being: “You have absorbed and integrated what we showed you. It is now your’s to own, as your own. Offer your gift. Your people will come forward, and seek you out. All you need to do is to be yourself, and they will be pleased.”
Is it any wonder, afterall? Quandary resolved. How simple. Just be myself and offer what I have assimilated. I thought I had been doing that, but the mandate implied that more simplicity is in order. Very well. The Word is made Flesh.
I had not traveled to an ashram, a temple, a mosque; nor had I climbed a mountain slope to seek the Master in his cave of knowing. I had not wandered into the wilderness and fasted and cleansed myself. All I did was put on my warm socks and boots and ripstop pants, a Carhartt shirt and coat, a scarf, my lambskin hat, show up with some unconditional presence, and spontaneously ask a question at a special ceremony.
I think the observation of ash and snowflake merging into one stopped the Brain Mind machinery long enough for the Heart Mind to exert the supremacy of silence and deliver its knowing. This aspect of Heart exists alongside its neuromuscular blood pumping function.
The mysteries of Source are known in the mysteries of the chambers of our Hearts. This was a meditation, or, at least, an example of it in action. The answers are always resting inside of us in a simplicity.
Patangali’s Yoga Sutras, number 2: “Yoga chitti vritti nirodha.”
The purpose of Yoga is to still the thought waves of the Mind. This is meditation.
We are all channels of a Divine creative consciousness. This Consciousness goes by many names, and all things channel It. You think you are doing your thing, your ego thing, or your non ego thing. When it all melts into itself, we are just channels for the Divine, our true Identity. We are integrated with Source through the Breath and the Light Body, a subject of prior blog entries. Ordinarily we go about suffering from an Identity crisis. At some point we want to know our Identity.
I have attempted to describe in this blog entry a theme of CEOLP, and that is this: “The Art of Living Well, and the Art of Dying Well, are One.”
Just remember the ash and the snowflakes merging into One. This is an example of the Bee’s Knees.
Signing off from Crestone and Beyond,
Love.