On July 1, my wife of thirty years, Kathy, came to the end of her journey. It was a longtime coming, as I suppose it is for all of us. But for her the journey included a life-threatening diagnosis and then treatment that continued for more than a dozen years. She lived as fully as one could, suffering through the hard times, and making the best of the good.

As a result of her death, I was ushered into a most liminal zone, one in which I still inhabit.

One of the most powerful characteristics of this zone is time confusion; the disruption of chronological time and the emergence of overlapping time in which the past, present and future collapse into one reality. This “eternal now” may actually be time’s fundamental nature before we organize it by our segmenting and ordering. During this time confusion it became difficult for me to think and act chronologically, though living life in the world requires it, especially tending to the multitudes of details following a death. I lost track of calendars and time of the day. As a result of this and emotional exhaustion, I slept long and hard, and dream time came to the fore. For this reason, it is challenging for me to create a timeline of when what took place. People and events collapse into one, so I am aware they are distinct though not quite aware when they appeared. This reality makes meditation and prayer more spontaneous and less regulated, I suppose due to the way the subconscious floods the conscious mind.

This experience has restated and reinforced the importance of ritual, especially death rituals: keeping vigil at the death bed, receiving pilgrims biding her farewell, final prayers with a clergyperson, and more. After her passing there was scattering rose petals upon the bed, ritually washing and dressing her body by an attending nurse. The public service of remembrance gathered community, assembled pilgrims from many places, restated our reality under the aspect of eternity, and rehearsed the foundations of faith that accompanied us throughout life.

But what next? Multitudes of sympathy cards, emails, and visits required response. I realized that I needed to slow down to respond thoughtfully, mindfully, to each one. I read each card out loud. I created a ritual altar of cards. I hand wrote the thank you notes for memorials or participation in last services. All of this helped to join mind to body to heart.

For me, one of the most important rituals was two-fold: going through her things and deciding what to do with them. Each item, whether it be a piece of jewelry or article of clothing, had sentimental and experiential meaning. My memories were activated; the act of going through them was one and the same as going through my memories of her. It was hard, but very important. The second part of that ritual had to do with the distribution of her things. I decided to think of that action as gift-giving and stewardship. Which items would benefit those who have needs? What item calls out to be given to which friend? Presenting them in person was also powerful ritual. “I know she would love for you to have this.” Her many material signs of life were scattered to the living who loved her. That was deeply gratifying.

Then there was hanging broad lengths of mourning ribbons on the doorposts of our home. Marking a space as a mourning space is of course an ancient practice. In some traditions people wear black for a specified period of time. Mirrors are covered, shades drawn. All of this expresses the invisible experience of loss vis-à-vis the visible. When I hung the ribbons in a visible place on our porches I did it for me, but also for others. Those outside the threshold of the house also need to know what is happening beyond the threshold of the house. These ribbons will stay up for 40 days, the universal time period for vast transitions, including death rituals. This will be my flood for forty days and forty nights, my wandering in the wilderness, my time of testing. One of my friends came to the house for a visit, looked up at the ribbon, and asked directly “What is that for?” When I explained it made perfect sense to her. Universal rituals are understood at deep intuitive levels.

When the forty days conclude I will be in Costa Rica, making a little pilgrimage to find what I will find. When the waters of this flood reside and the dove appears with an olive branch I will be in San Jose. I will head to the cathedral and light a candle. By my actions I will pronounce to myself, in one way or another, “The forty days are over.” My grief will not be. But my journey through the liminal spaces is on the way, helped in large part by the traditions and rituals I have inherited and the ones I created myself.