Holiday Shopping with a Twist: Picking Coffins and Reflecting on Legacies
Series exploring End-of-Life Arrangements
Welcome to a journey that is mine, but also yours. A journey that belongs to all of us: the passage into life's final chapter. For the past two and a half years, I’ve been preparing—not just in the small, practical ways, but in the deep, tender ones: tending to the heart, readying the spirit.
In the months ahead, I hope to share what it means to prepare for the great mystery that awaits—to shape the end of a life with care and intention. To consider what becomes of this body I’ve lived in, the things I’ve gathered, the bonds I’ve woven, and the soul I continue to nourish.
Think of this as a sonata with four movements—body, belongings, bonds, and soul—each playing its own distinct tune in the grand symphony of life and death.
Before we turn to the matter of the body, let us remember what the body truly is.
These bodies—temporary vessels of spirit—carry us through the world’s beauty and sorrow, through the precise and tangible moments that make up a life. A funeral is more than a farewell; it is a tribute to the mysterious, tender dance between the physical and the eternal. It is an honoring of all this body made possible: what it allowed us to feel, to hold, to witness.
First Movement: My Body.
All I want for Christmas is…. a coffin?
As 2023 came to a close, the holiday season served up an unusual blend of reflection and pragmatism. Adrian had just arrived in NYC for winter break, and before we flew to Asia, we kicked things off with a tour of funeral homes, diving deep into the particulars of post-mortem arrangements. Not your typical holiday ritual—but little about this chapter has been typical.
The truth is, this particular journey started not in December, but soon after my diagnosis. I opened a shared document—a living file—for those closest to me to help shape these decisions. What began as a checklist became something else: a record of evolving wishes. Not just for the end, but for the days leading up to it. For care. For relationships. For rituals. For the passing on of things. For how to release this body—gently, peacefully, without fear.
Returning Gently: The Rise of Eco-Conscious Endings
In exploring post-mortem options, I stumbled upon some jaw-dropping numbers: each year in the U.S., burials consume 4.3 million gallons of embalming fluid, 20 million feet of wood, 64,500 tons of steel, and a staggering 1.6 million tons of concrete—according to the Green Burial Council International. It made me wonder: could we not meet death with a little more humility?
I knew traditional burials weren’t great for the environment, but the scale was startling. Embalming fluids contaminate soil and groundwater. Funeral workers face real health risks. And as the climate shifts, even graves once considered permanent are being exposed. These revelations only deepened my commitment to avoiding embalming and choosing more earth-conscious practices.
I first looked into aquamation—also known as water cremation or alkaline hydrolysis. What drew me to it was its remarkable energy efficiency: it uses 90 percent less energy than traditional cremation, avoids direct pollutants, and doesn’t rely on fossil fuels. Desmond Tutu’s choice to be aquamated for his state funeral speaks to its growing moral and environmental appeal. Regrettably, as of early 2024, aquamation remains unavailable in New York or nearby states. The nearest facility is in North Carolina, but transporting a body across state lines can be complicated—and often requires embalming, which would defeat the purpose.
I also explored human composting (natural organic reduction), green burials, and the growing array of sustainable, biodegradable coffins and urns now available. From Etsy artisans to sleek online casket companies—one of which boasts actor David Dastmalchian as its ambassador—the options are expanding, offering more thoughtful, earth-conscious ways to return to the soil.
Green burials are gaining ground as a compelling alternative to conventional practices. Of all the post-mortem options, they remain among the most environmentally sound. By forgoing embalming and using biodegradable materials, they allow the body to return naturally to the earth—decomposing in a way that nourishes the soil rather than harming it.
While options in the New York city area have begun to expand, they still lag behind places like the West Coast, where eco-conscious farewells are becoming more accessible. Space constraints, cost, and logistics continue to pose challenges. Still, there are meaningful signs of progress—especially through the work of Amy Cunningham, a Brooklyn-based funeral director whose rare sensitivity and vision have made a real difference in bringing green burial to those seeking a more intentional, earth-honoring way to say goodbye.
Even with these expanding options, I’ve come to realize that no single place holds me. After a life lived largely in motion, I’m leaning toward cremation—for the flexibility it offers, and for the chance to shape a farewell that reflects our values, and the way I’ve lived.
What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others. - Pericles
I’ve also enrolled in Memorial Sloan Kettering’s Last Wish program, which allows patients to donate post-mortem tissue for cancer research. There’s still no cure for my rare cancer, cholangiocarcinoma, and biopsies are often difficult—especially when the majority of tumors, like mine, aren’t operable. But if my body can offer even a sliver of insight—a step toward a breakthrough, a glimmer of hope for someone else—that feels like a legacy worth leaving. (The procedure takes just 24 hours, after which the body is returned to the funeral home of your choice.)
For a bit of levity in these otherwise weighty explorations, I’ve occasionally entertained my loved ones with some decidedly unconventional ideas for my remains. Among the contenders: a space burial to orbit the Earth forever; a firework dispersal to “go out with a bang”; a reef ball interment to nurture marine life; sea burial for a whimsical “sleeping with the fishes”; transforming my ashes into memorial diamonds to sparkle on; or pressing them into a vinyl record—my ultimate Greatest Hits. And if none of these spark joy, there’s always the $67,000 pyramid mummification in Utah—like buying a luxury car, but with a deluxe ride to the afterlife.
As playful as these ideas are, they remind me that my life has already been rich with adventure. I don’t need an extraordinary exit to feel complete.
E-Foiling Into the Beyond, Fiji, October 2023.
Meeting Funeral Directors
I began reaching out to local funeral homes—not just to find someone who could handle the logistics, but someone who could hold my loved ones with care. Someone who understands that grief often doesn’t begin the day someone dies—especially when death doesn’t come suddenly, but approaches slowly, as it does with illness. It begins in quiet moments, subtle reckonings, the slow unfolding of goodbye. That’s what we call anticipatory grief. And when it’s met with skill and presence, it can make all the difference. It gives space to begin absorbing the truth. To prepare. To gather. To let go, bit by bit—so that what comes doesn’t have to shatter all at once.
Raised in a culture where funeral homes are more often met with dread than curiosity—even with pop culture gems like Six Feet Under or Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home chipping away at the stigma—I was surprised by how illuminating those conversations turned out to be. Adrian and I found them not only thoughtful, but at times even lighthearted. They expanded our understanding of death—not as something to fear or avoid, but as a natural, even tender, part of the human journey.
Our visit to Sparrow Funeral Home in Brooklyn was unexpectedly eye-opening. The space itself—bright, modern, almost serene—felt more like a sanctuary than a place of mourning. What struck me most wasn’t just the contemporary esthetic, design, but the ethos behind it. Sparrow reimagines death care through what they call “end-of-life wellness”: offering green burials, aquamation, human composting, and hosting community gatherings like death cafés and grief walks. They even help organize ‘exit parties’—farewells held while someone is still alive. It’s not glossy or gimmicky, just a genuine attempt to meet death with the same thoughtfulness and care we try to bring to life.
Throughout our afternoon visit, we were drawn in by the director’s presence—a disarming mix of empathy, humor, and clear-eyed storytelling that opened up a fuller understanding of what’s possible, and how much care can be woven into this final chapter.
In one especially moving story, the director shared how he had arranged a funeral for a 19-year-old university student who died unexpectedly. Her parents wanted a ceremony that honored her love of botany and deep connection to nature. So he transformed the space into a lush, living rainforest—real trees, benches, and floor pillows replacing the usual rows of chairs. Her coffin, a canoe draped in handwoven English fabric, became a vessel not just for farewell, but for everything she cherished.
The story took a more complex turn when the director described the tensions that surfaced around the girl’s remains. Her parents disagreed about what to do with her ashes. Stepping in as a quiet mediator, he offered a temporary solution: the ashes would remain at the funeral home—a liminal resting place while emotions settled. But as her birthday neared, her father asked to take them for just 24 hours. Instead of returning, he boarded a plane to India. In a haze of psychedelics, a journey both within and without, he scattered half of her ashes in its sacred waters.
This act, seemingly born from a chaotic dance of grief and transcendence, wove its own strange magic. The mother, once locked in conflict with the father, found room in her heart for something softer: acceptance. It was a reminder that in the labyrinth of loss, where conventional paths fail us, resolution and peace can arrive from the most unlikely places.
The Director then shared the story of a 59-year-old schoolteacher whose life ended swiftly in the grip of pancreatic cancer, leaving behind five grieving children. She had a deep dislike of flowers—but a fierce love of lemons. In response, he transformed the funeral space into a verdant orchard of 15-foot lemon trees. Guests were invited to pick a (real) lemon from the branches—a living symbol of her warmth and generosity—and later to plant its seeds, a ritual evoking the continuous cycle of life and death. In that orchard of citrus and remembrance, her love of lemons became the quiet thread that held the farewell together.
In another memorable account, a daughter asked to forgo a traditional coffin for her mother. The funeral home responded by creating a space that felt more like a sacred gathering than a service. They arranged a table with pillows wrapped in richly textured fabrics from Madrid and draped the room in soft, canvas linens. Cherry blossom trees flanked the space, and hundreds of candles cast a flickering glow. Yoruba drums pulsed quietly in the background, their chants lending rhythm to the vigil. Guests sat cross-legged on the floor for the night, holding watch in a ceremony that felt intimate, grounded, and deeply soulful.
If these stories sound embellished, they’re not. The Funeral Director shared them not for effect, but with the wisdom of someone who spends his days at the edge of life and death—where creativity, care, and ritual meet.
Another poignant story involved a man struggling with what to do with his loved one’s ashes. “What do I do with this vessel?” he asked. “How do I open it?”
The answer was simple: “Break it.”
And so he did. The moment the urn shattered, he was overtaken by a wave of emotion—something raw and uncontainable. The act pierced through his fear and denial. In breaking the vessel, he broke open his grief. He would later say it was that moment that set him on the path to healing.
Amid the isolation of the COVID pandemic, one family rejected the flatness of a virtual funeral, seeking something more intimate, more true. They envisioned a documentary—a way to capture the essence of their loved one through the eyes of those who knew her best.
So the funeral director, along with a small film crew and strict adherence to safety protocols, became something of a roving archivist. For three months, he traveled the world, sitting in living rooms and kitchens, listening. What emerged was a tapestry of unscripted conversations—raw, loving, and unguarded.
The final film wasn’t just a memorial. It was a living portrait—a mosaic of stories and tributes, bearing witness to the quiet power of a life fully lived.
Another globe-trotter had a final wish as adventurous as the life she led: her ashes, portioned into tiny bottles, were handed out at her funeral. Guests were invited to carry them on their travels, scattering her across the world she so loved—an intimate tribute to a life defined by movement, curiosity, and wonder.
In one of our quieter exchanges, the funeral director spoke of the sacred power of clarity. Spell it out, he urged—whether you wish to be cloaked in crimson, toasted with bourbon, or remembered without ceremony at all. Every detail, from the hour to the mood, helps light the path for those left behind. When the map is clear, there’s less chance of getting lost in grief, or tangled in disagreement. To leave such instructions, he said, is not just planning—it’s a final gesture of love.
Our conversation with the director left a lasting impression on both Adrian and me. We were struck by his candor and warmth, and moved by the quiet compassion he brought to his work. His stories revealed just how much is possible in the realm of modern death care—how farewells can be shaped with creativity, reverence, and heart. Each visit, each memory shared, expanded our sense of what it means to say goodbye—how a final tribute can truly reflect the spirit, values, and singular beauty of a life.
It left us with much to reflect on. I’ve come to see that I favor simplicity over spectacle—no need for my ashes to travel far, no sweeping environmental gestures, no dramatic parting acts. While I respect the meaning others find in such rituals, my heart leans in another direction. Part of my legacy will live on through a fund in my name, supporting those who continue the work I care most about—advocating for justice in the world’s most fragile places. That, to me, feels like the most honest expression of what I’ve stood for.
The true meaning of life is to plant trees, under whose shade you do not expect to sit. —Nelson Henderson.
Our meeting with another funeral director later that week was equally profound. An elder deeply respected in her field, she carried a rare blend of professional precision and spiritual presence. Adrian and I were especially moved by the story of a Tibetan Buddhist ceremony she arranged in Brooklyn. Monks in saffron robes had gathered from across the world to chant ritual prayers. In the kitchen of the home, they prepared traditional offerings—chickpea curry and butter tea—which were then shared with all who came to honor the departed.
After an astrological assessment—taking into account the deceased’s meditative state at the time of death, their physical location, and their position within the bardos—it was determined that the body should remain at home for 48 hours. The funeral procession was to begin precisely at 6:58 a.m.
When the moment arrived, the procession moved slowly and deliberately from the home to the crematory. The deceased, a devoted Buddhist practitioner, had undertaken prolonged fasting in preparation for death. His body—nearly mummified—showed no signs of decay, a detail the director noted with hushed reverence. The entire experience was steeped in reverence, reflecting a central tenet of Buddhist funerary rites: the meticulous care taken to guide the soul’s passage from this life.
That ceremony deepened my appreciation for the varied ways cultures hold death—with reverence, with beauty, with meaning.
As Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us, “This body is not me; I am not caught in this body, I am life without boundaries.”
As I continue to reflect on these experiences, I find that the shape of my own departure is still settling into form. The documents are in place, the essentials tended to—yet some choices remain open, waiting. This process isn’t fixed; it breathes. With each conversation, a new contour emerges. For now, I take comfort in knowing the groundwork is there. For now, I take comfort in the groundwork having been laid—and trust that the rest will find its form in time.
If you feel called to explore your own path with similar intention, you’ll find a set of reflection questions at the end of this piece to support you.
And a note for those walking alongside: the companion piece—offering the wisdom I hope to leave my son—is now live here:
REFLECTION QUESTIONS
How might your unique life story, values, and beliefs shape the way you envision your end-of-life arrangements? What symbols, rituals, or traditions carry deep meaning for you—and how could they be woven into your final farewell to reflect your spirit with authenticity and care?
What kind of setting would feel most supportive for sharing your end-of-life wishes with those you love? How might you create an atmosphere that fosters honesty, tenderness, and meaningful dialogue?
Beyond practical planning, how might end-of-life conversations become a space to express love, share memories, and deepen connection? Have you thought about leaving behind a letter, video, or meaningful keepsake—something your loved ones can return to and feel your presence?
What legacy do you hope to leave behind? Beyond material possessions, what emotional imprint, ethical values, or sense of belonging do you wish to offer the people and communities whose lives you've touched?
How can we honor the privilege of planning a peaceful departure in safety and comfort? In what ways might you extend empathy or support to those in conflict zones or precarious circumstances, who face the end of life amid uncertainty, displacement, or distress?
“The trouble is, you think you have time.” Buddha
When it's over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.Mary Oliver, from “When Death Comes”
See here for full poem
another beautifully overwhelmingg written piece--eagerly await next chapter
selma
So resonant. I was just at the Meiji Shinto shrine, praying that Chris & I - most importantly Chris - will find peace in his final days. Just as I was about to cross the gate to leave the grounds, there was an earthquake. Light & energy hugs to you!