Contemplation of a Spiritual Death

By Tabitha Eastgate

Is it death you fear?

The question has plagued my mind since my first memories. People find solace in differing things – some in drugs and alcohol, some through religion, and some through neither. Religion was never a concrete thing for my family as I grew up. After my parent’s divorce, I would bounce between houses without any real care. I had heard them talk about religion, God, and the Bible multiple times – I even owned one, a pocketbook New and Old Testaments. It wasn’t until I was nine that I first delved into religion. I was soaring through our zero-stoplight town on my pink bicycle, and I stumbled across a Presbyterian church that was having a bake sale. What better way to draw new members in than some fresh funnel cake and a sweet old woman preaching how it changed her life.

My mom and stepdad had been hesitant, but for me, a chance at finally understanding the way that I felt was more than enough for me to want to try being religious. During the time between my parent’s divorce and my time discovering the church, I had found myself lost in a never-ending void – nothing mattered, and all I felt was despair and a sensation of drowning, choking the life out of me until I was returned to dust.

That next week, we were dressed in our Sunday best as we followed the procession inside. It was there that I met the pastor, a towering man in deep silver hair, and a smile that seemed to reach into my being – promising that everything would be okay. How I wish I could relive that feeling.

We were introduced and welcomed to the church with ease, everyone glad to see a family trying to reach the same salvation they were. My brother and I were enrolled in Sunday School where we studied Genesis deeper than the other books, and we painted different stained glass plastic ornaments. I was encouraged to join the choir, filled with old ladies who stood as tall as their hunched backs would allow, and one would always press me to wear the flowing, floral dresses that were passed on to me.

It might have been around that moment that I began to question what I was doing. Why did I have to be in dresses with neat, combed back hair to be accepted. Wasn’t God’s thing to accept you as you were? I can’t remember how long I spent attending Sunday School and going to Church right after, but the things that once brought me joy seemed to trickle away. I began questioning the things that I was taught. Why was famine allowed? Why were people orphaned? Why did some families not have enough money to buy what they needed? Why did my parents not love each other? Why did I feel so desolate and alone in a room swamped with people in high spirits?

I quit the church not long after. I followed in my brother’s footsteps and became an atheist. I didn’t feel right, but it didn’t feel wrong. I questioned if I still believed at times, always worried about the impending Hell that would await me for being a sinner and for denying God; but there were times that I didn’t care – I was searching for what was right, and I wasn’t finding it there. The further I went in life, the more cynical I became. Was this due to a lack of spiritual discovery, or was this just due to the nature of life? I couldn’t decide. Deep into the night, peering into the numbing blue light of the slim computer, I delved into different religions – Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity, I even contemplated taking religious classes in college. I couldn’t bring myself to. Everything felt like a sham. It would be almost two decades before I gave up atheism for something new, something that I had a raw connection with again.

I sit there, staring at that one spot on my wooden dresser. It spans half the width of the room, and yet all I can focus on is a spot by the right corner that is only five by three inches wide. I haven’t touched them in six months, not since my kitten, my familiar – my dear Possum – passed away from an incurable disease. I watched as she began to waste away, the silkiness of her grey fur became coarse, the taut muscle diminished, the spark in her one seeing eye flattened, how nursing on a fuzzy blanket became increasingly difficult for her, but she tried to never let it slow her down. She was always present when I engaged in my cards, but after losing her, I lost my spirit. Now, I watched as the cards gathered dust, wrapped together by a neon yellow and black hairband – the box it came in long crushed and broken, not unlike my hope of finding spiritual relief.

When I received my first tarot deck, it was as if the chaos in my soul knew what I was doing, and it began to calm down for the first time since I realized the disparity between the church and me. I opened the pale-yellow container and let the cards fall into my hand. The back held tan vines winding their way across the black background, all centering the eight-petal flower in the middle. If felt as though the cards were calling to me, beckoning me to put them to use. The little booklet that came with it explained what each card represented, as well as the history behind tarot cards and why there’s 78 cards.

I traced my fingers across each one, relishing in the electricity I felt in my fingertips. Eager to get started, I grabbed my crystals and set forth to discover what I could about my life. There’s no one way to shuffle them, but I find that doing a riffle shuffle three times, knocking on the deck, and then an overhand shuffle works best for me. I continue this until fate draws out the number of cards I’m seeking, letting them slowly fall out of the shuffle one by one. I would ask thorough questions about my life, perspectives on important decisions, guidance in my hobby that I want to turn into a job, and advice on what to do when I felt lost. Every week I would grab the cards for a reading, sometimes more often, but I would always remember to shuffle them daily – just to let them know I hadn’t forgotten them. To me, they felt alive, an extension of my being.

Possum stayed with me each drawing, always lying beside my legs or on my lap, purring gently and watching as the cards fell into place. The more I utilized the cards, the more I felt connected to whatever spiritual feeling I had chased since I was a child; I finally began to feel safe, no longer afraid, or angry. I stopped the day Possum died.

Something’s changed, though. Today, I feel drawn to them. I see my first tarot deck surrounded by my malachite, clear quartz, selenite, and sandalwood incense, and it beckons me. They tell me it’s time; they tell me my grief and distance are valid, but that I can’t dwell in it any longer. I hesitate, one leg swung over the bed, throat tight and parched, and I think, should I?

I muster the courage to get up, and I nearly stumble over my feet walking the short steps to the dresser. I grab the cards – they feel heavier than last time I used them. They hold the grief I held. I run my thumb along the back of the top card, swiping a thin layer of dust off it. I swallow. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I slowly take off the hairband and press the cards against my stomach, trying to decide if this is the right path to take.

Loki jumps up on the corner by where I sit. He’s my newest foster, a long-haired black kitten, blind in both eyes. He takes a tentative step towards the cards, sticking his nose against the edge of the deck as he sniffs. Deciding they were okay and not interesting enough to play with, he walks to the blanket a few inches away and sits down, staring at me, expectant. It reminds me of Possum and offers some solace – it’s different, but it makes me smile, nonetheless.

Raising the cards, I repeat my shuffling habit, knocking once more to get rid of the negative energy it held from our combined grief and feelings of loneliness. I let out my breath and slowly begin to guide the cards through the motions, waiting, watching, hoping for three cards to fall. My past, present, and future. On the first shuffle, my past falls out; on the fourth, my present; on the twelfth, my future lies before me.

I break out my journal and jot down what each card is and what they represent.

Feeling refreshed, I get up and go to the living room to grab a new incense. I light a frankincense backflow cone for the living room, letting the smoke billow out. I grab another sandalwood incense stick and light it, quick to blow out the fire on the tip, letting it emit soft strands of grey smoke. I take it over to each room, making sure to swipe it from corner to corner, around my deck and crystals, around each doorframe and window, before finally I brought it over to the altar where I have the urns of deceased pets.

Fostering sick kittens isn’t an easy job, some make it into great homes, and some never make it to adulthood, dying when they finally start to show signs of recovery. It doesn’t get easier; it only gets harder. You try all the medicine and tricks that you can, but some are just destined to not make it. On this altar is where Possum resides, along with a two-by-two black canvas with her paw print painted in metallic purple. I let the incense finish its burn here. After she died, I kept a sigil underneath the cloth, one for guidance and to let her know I’ll never forget the time she blessed me with. Watching the incense darken and the ashes fall on the tray, I find myself feeling safe again.

I still don’t believe in what I feel I’m supposed to, but I feel like I’m on my way. So, is it death that I fear? No, I no longer believe it is. What I fear is what comes after death. I know living things die, I have more experience with that than I could ever want; but I don’t know what exists beyond that. I go to sleep each night in anguish over not knowing what will happen to my family, my fiancée, my friends, my pets, or, well… me.

In my daily life, there’s always a sense of isolation. It feels as though everyone around me has accepted they don’t know, so why should they fuss over it. Some have religion to calm them, some believe there’s nothing more than empty darkness – a void, and others believe in a form of reincarnation.

What do I believe? That I’ll die, and that I’ll be in torment every day until I find death knocking on my door. I don’t think anything will ever get rid of the thought that gnaws at the recesses of my mind. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t raised with anything, or maybe I’m just lost, destined to wander for the duration of my time on this decaying planet.

All I can do is wait – thinking.

Existing.

Dying.

Tabitha Eastgate is currently a student studying English, Art History, and French at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, and lives with their fiancée, cats, dog, and reptiles. They are an aspiring author and are currently in the process of editing their first novel manuscript – a paranormal romance – and writing a second about a fictitious war. They have published one creative nonfiction work previously in 2015 at Central Community College – Columbus, Nebraska entitled “The Cherry Colored Kool-Aid Stain”. When not found busy writing, Tabitha can be seen helping foster animals, working on school, or baking bread and cookies.

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