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About 13 years ago, I had an experience that was transformative for me. I was on the island of Yap in remote Pacific Micronesia, and I asked if there were a major life event — a marriage, funeral, or celebration for a baby’s birth — that I might be allowed to attend. Locals sighed and said that there was no event like that taking place.
Disappointed, I returned to my hotel room, and the next day there was a knock on the door. The manager said there was a funeral boat going to the island of Mog Mog, and we were booked for it. Only a few people had been to Mog Mog within the previous few years, and I was grateful to be a fly on the wall for this significant time in a person’s life.
Fortunately, one of the island men translated for me as we sat outside the hut where the funeral observances were taking place. First, there was ritualized mourning. The sound of wailing was very moving and lasted for a while.
Then, people started to talk about the deceased. The translator was very matter-of-fact as he told me what the mourners were saying. They told the truth about the man who had passed. They shared good things about him, and kind things he had done. But I was shocked to learn that they also spoke honestly and openly, in front of the whole community, about the shadow side of the departed. Some of it was quite serious, and I had never before encountered such transparency at a funeral. I asked my translator if this was a common practice, and he said yes. It was psychologically healthy for the people who had been hurt or harmed to speak their truth, and share with the community what their experience was. It was even important for the man who had died to have the truth spoken about him, and how he behaved in life. It honored the truth of his existence.
“But,” my translator said, “once the person is buried in the ground, it is not spoken of again.”
My mind was spinning. I had experienced funerals of people I knew and funerals for public figures where the deceased was described as something close to a saint. The person was usually depicted as kind, smart, helpful to people, accomplished; the departed was a loyal family member, generous, interested in others, and spread love. In almost all cases, the lionization felt unreal to me. My feelings about the deceased were often quite different, and not so flattering. Was this truth-telling a good thing?
When I returned to the U.S., I was at a party and I shared my Mog Mog experience with the guests. They gathered around, listened attentively, and then several of them said they wouldn’t mind being eulogized like that. They began to talk about it among themselves.
I thought about it some more, and then wrote about it in my book, Life is a Trip: The Transformative Magic of Travel. I was extremely moved and surprised by the outpouring of interest in that chapter. Readers contacted me and said they always felt uncomfortable about sanctifying people who had passed. Some of them said they would include post-mortem truth-telling into their wills or wishes. And they thought that the psychological benefit of breaking the barrier of silence about what people had suffered and struggled with was very healing.
I have never forgotten that Mog Mog experience. And whether it is public or private, at a funeral, with friends, or in a therapist’s office, truth-telling about one’s experience seems to me to be a vital stop on the road to repair for past suffering.
When my time comes to leave the earthly plain, I wonder what people will say about me.
