Whole Being: Life Alchemy
Being, Belonging, Becoming
Ashes to Ashes: A Reflection on Memento Mori
We are mortal beings, created out of the dust of the earth. We inhale the breath of life, exhale into the world, and one day, we will return to the soil. This is not a curse, nor a punishment—it is a promise, a truth whispered by every fallen leaf, every decaying log, every wave that crashes and is drawn back into the sea.
The words of Ash Wednesday, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” are often framed as a warning. In the Christian tradition, the ashes pressed onto foreheads are a reminder of human frailty, a call to repentance before the inevitable arrival of death. But death is not a failure, and to be dust is not to be lost. The earth does not mourn its decay; it thrives because of it.
“We come from this earth and we will return to this earth. The word human is a derivative of the word humus. We spring from the same soil that houses our ancestor’s great sleep. We walk on the fossilized bones and decomposed flesh of all the people and every species that traversed the earth before our time. It is humbling and reassuring to know that I entered this life-giving sphere only after so many good people came before me to consecrate this land with their vitality and knowing that we share the universal story of struggle. It is consoling understanding that after I die Mother Earth will turn my decomposed shell into a new form of life. My decaying body will provide nutrients for life that will rise after I die. Until the soil opens up to receive me as its own child, I must take a stand and make the most out of the sunshine and rainstorms that beat down upon all people alike.” ― Kilroy J. Oldster, Dead Toad Scrolls
Memento Mori: The Gift of Death
Memento mori, "Remember that you will die", has been invoked across cultures as both a sobering truth and a guiding wisdom. In medieval Europe, it was a reminder to live righteously. In Stoic philosophy, it was an invitation to live fully. But what if we approached it not as an individual reckoning, but as a relational truth?
To remember death is to remember that we are part of a reciprocal cycle, not separate from it. Every breath we take is borrowed from the green world, the oxygen spun from leaf and branch, the carbon exhaled into the lungs of the forest. Our bodies are not our own, they belong to the river, the mycelium, the soil that will one day reclaim us.
We do not “end.” We become.
The bones of our ancestors are pressed into the land beneath our feet. The cells in our bodies are stitched from the bodies that came before. The food we eat is the death of something else, a seed cracked open, a fruit plucked, a creature offered back to the great turning of the wheel. Death is not a single moment, a sharp severance. It is compost, renewal, transformation.
Death as Alchemy, Life as Offering
The archetypes of death are many: The Crone with her sharp scythe, The Ferryman waiting at the river’s edge, The Reaper who reminds us that all things must change form. In Pagan traditions, death is not a punishment but an alchemy, a necessary dissolution that makes room for new life. The oak does not weep for the acorn it once was. The snake does not mourn the skin it sheds.
In many ways, we are constantly dying and being reborn, not just at the end of our lives, but in every moment. The person you were ten years ago is gone, returned to memory and bone. The body you inhabit today is different from the one you woke up in yesterday. Cells die, new ones take their place. Thoughts shift, identities unravel, stories reshape.
What if we leaned into this unraveling? What if, instead of resisting impermanence, we let ourselves be composted, reformed, made new again and again?
What if death is not a thief, but a teacher?
What if the invitation is not to fear it, but to make of our lives an offering worthy of return?
Prayer for Ash and Reciprocity
Breath of the world, Spirit of Life and Death
Today, we stand in the turning of time,
With dust on our hands, with earth on our skin,
Aware that we, too, are made of the stars and the soil.
Ash is not an end, but a beginning.
It is the soil that cradles the seed,
The ember that remembers fire,
The memory of what was and the promise of what will be.
May we walk with reverence in this fleeting moment,
Knowing that change is the rhythm of all things.
May we surrender to the wisdom of decay,
For in loss, new life stirs.
May we breathe with the tides of becoming,
Trusting that we are held in the great unfolding.
From. dust, we arise. To dust, we will return.
And between these breaths,
Let us live with wonder, with love, with open hands.
So may it be
Living With the Awareness of Death
To hold death in our minds is not to be consumed by dread—it is to be sharpened by presence. It is to understand that every interaction, every moment of beauty, every choice is part of the great, fleeting dance of existence.
So how do we honor this truth?
We build altars, not just to the dead, but to the living. We honor the ancestors not by mourning, but by carrying their stories forward, by shaping our lives as a continuation of what came before.
We live as if we are already part of the cycle, because we are. We touch the earth, plant trees, feed the soil, knowing that we too will be fed back into the weave.
We embrace the art of letting go. We release what no longer serves, trusting that death—of ideas, of identities, of old versions of ourselves—is necessary for transformation.
We are mortal beings, created out of the dust of the earth. But that dust is sacred, full of memory, full of promise. The ashes pressed upon our skin are not just a reminder of our end but of our place in the great cycle of becoming.
To dust we shall return. And from dust, we shall rise again.
~Ash Wednesday~
I have always requested my ashes
be put in the form of a question mark
instead of a cross.
Priests and pastors always wonder
but hesitantly comply
a few have even understood.
It’s not that I don’t believe in ashes -
they are a fine reminder of our humanity
and our numbered days.
It’s just that I don’t make penance
for the skin I was born into any more
Or the life I live.
I like to think of ashes as one of the greatest
of ancient fertilizers
used since the beginning of time to improve soil
and help crops grow.
The question mark reminds me of who I am -
a wandering, wondering, ever-questioning
Pilgrim on life’s journey
who will wear ashes on Ash Wednesday
and continue to question the Cross but never The Christ.
Blessing the Dust
All those days
you felt like dust,
like dirt,
as if all you had to do
was turn your face
toward the wind
and be scattered
to the four corners
or swept away
by the smallest breath
as insubstantial—
Did you not know
what the Holy One
can do with dust?
This is the day
we freely say
we are scorched.
This is the hour
we are marked
by what has made it
through the burning.
This is the moment
we ask for the blessing
that lives within
the ancient ashes,
that makes its home
inside the soil of
this sacred earth.
So let us be marked
not for sorrow.
And let us be marked
not for shame.
Let us be marked
not for false humility
or for thinking
we are less
than we are
but for claiming
what God can do
within the dust,
within the dirt,
within the stuff
of which the world
is made,
and the stars that blaze
in our bones,
and the galaxies that spiral
inside the smudge
we bear.
- Jan Richardson
For Progressive Christians
A Reflection on Authenticity: An Ash Wednesday Meditation
"Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my thoughts.
Point out anything in me that offends you,
and lead me along the path of everlasting life."
—Psalm 139:23-24 (NLT)
This Ash Wednesday, these words settle deep within me, echoing the call to authenticity. They ask us to examine the distance between our thoughts, words, and actions—to consider whether we truly live in alignment with what we profess to believe.
For much of my life, I assumed that silence in the face of negative thoughts was virtue enough. That keeping a sharp word or an unkind judgment to myself made me righteous. But this psalm challenges that assumption. It reminds me that God—or Spirit—calls us to something deeper: not just restraint, but transformation.
Yet, this raises a difficult question: Does authenticity mean saying exactly what we feel, no matter how harsh? In a world increasingly drawn to those who “speak their truth” without filter or reflection, it is easy to mistake raw expression for virtue. But authenticity is more than just speaking freely—it is speaking responsibly. It is having the courage to be honest, but also the wisdom to temper truth with love.
The psalm itself offers a guide: "Point out anything that offends you." Authenticity is not just about expression; it is about refinement. It is about examining our impulses, testing them against the values we claim to hold, and being willing to correct our course when our words or actions harm. It is a call to both self-awareness and accountability—to speak truth while remaining open to the ways that truth might need to evolve.
This, I believe, is the essence of a truly authentic life—one that seeks not just to be heard, but to be transformed.