Why Psychopomp

I did not know the word “psychopomp” until Fall 2023, when my friend Tally shared it with me. I had given her a list of names I was contemplating calling my new “business” and I had asked for her advice. As an after thought she sent me this single word: psychopomp. I Googled it immediately and went down a rabbit hole late into the night. A simple definition of a psychopomp is a “guide of souls,” but a deeper dive reveals a rich and broad role psychopomps play in death, as well as in life.

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Fumbling through grief these last few years, I often find myself grieving both the physical touch and companionship of my people, as well as the richness and the rawness of the liminal space around their death. When my father died we sang songs and knit hats in a circle and children played while we wept. When my cousin died, we did the same. And then I wrapped her in a shroud I had woven with my hands and we buried her together in a meadow on top of a hill.

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My husband calls what I do “weaving and grieving.” And when I started weaving in earnest after my father’s death, I would often weave in silence, lulled by the rhythmic clanking of the metal heddles and cheered, if even slightly, by the way the colors lay one on top of the other, surprising me with the new colors their closeness created. In search of “portal places” where I could be, for a moment, in the stillness and the silence of liminal space, I found myself weaving and my loom, a companion.Years later, I am still awed everytime I sit down to work. The loom and I have practiced the art of simply “being with,” over and over and over again. This learned process of weaving has kept me company, calmed and carried me, cared for me, challenged, changed and chosen me.

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As I explored different definitions and interpretations of the word “psychopomp,” I found myself scribbling down words like: helper, encourager, and companion and repeating phrases like “be with” in my head. My work as a Death Doula resonated with these words and phrases and that connection encouraged and excited me to lean into that calling. Simultaneously, I realized that the loom fills this “psychopomp-ish” role for me, nourishing me as I navigate the heaviness and heart break of grief. With a growing adoration of the word “psychopomp” I continued reading stories and looking at images of psychopomps. People have found companionship in flowers and encouragement in the night sky and the stories of these vast and varied helpers cross the thresholds of time, place, culture, etc. The healing power of plants, the swiftness and creativity of bees, the cocooning, transforming and resurrection of butterflies, each tiny witness to the ever present cycle of life and death.

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Frederick Buechner said “Vocation is the place where our deep gladness meets the world's deep need.” And while I certainly never envisioned I would be standing at the crossroads of end of life care and handweaving, this is where I stand. So when I came across the story of Tayet I found myself weeping with gladness for the likeness of her image. The story of Tayet names her as an ancient goddess of both weaving AND funerary arts. The cloth she wove was used to wrap the dead in comfort and companionship as they transitioned from life to death. In some of the stories, like many ancient gods and goddesses, Tayet took the form of a bird of prey, accompanying those who were traveling between two worlds.

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When my cousin was dying, we openly and honestly talked about her impending death and my work as a death doula and marveled at the way the imminent closeness to the end of life made old wounds disappear and new more beautiful truths blossom. She allowed and encouraged me to be creative and wild and courageous around her death, to invite others into the journey and to find ways to create comfort and ease and honesty around death. She was not the first to extend this kind of invitation, but together the process of her death allowed for the transformation of many. Part of this transformation is offering an invitation into death that is comforting, warm, and safe. So when I met Tayet in these stories, I began to create an image of death that looked like knowing her made me feel, a new personification of death, one that is colorful and warm, powerful and protective, wild, wide-eyed and watchful.

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There is much for me to learn about the meaning of psychopomp and the role it plays in my weaving and end of life care, but for now I am grateful for the ways the loom and the colors of the weavings and the image of Tayet have connected, and comforted me. Sometimes I picture this new image of Tayet with her wings wrapped like a shroud of deep comfort around her body, perched on top of my loom like a friend, and I wonder what other things I will see when I open my eyes in the darkness.

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Psychopomps are adept at sitting still in hard spaces around birth, death and transformation and making those hard spaces softer, more comfortable, safer. Psychopomps help us to be present with the transition that is taking place with compassion, courage and non-judgmental care. Psychopomps guide us through difficult conversations around death, growth and transformation. Psychopomps offer knowledgeable alternatives for honoring and celebrating life and death. Psychopomps can take many forms and only ask of us, as Mary Oliver does, that we “Pay attention. Be Astonished. Tell About it."

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What I have discovered as I have befriended death is that the more we are invited to participate, the more beautiful, humbling and transformative the inevitable becomes. When we are able to embrace our own fear of death and normalize our conversations about death, we open up a whole new way of living our lives. Tayet was said to “wake in peace.” When I lie in bed at night and I find myself in search of tomorrow, I ask that I too will wake in peace. She is me, I am she, we are we are we are we.