Who knew conversations about death could be so life-affirming? Since I organized the first PDX Death Cafe last spring my world has expanded to include scores of open-hearted, broken-hearted, life-embracing, death-accepting, courageous caring people yearning to connect through the isolation and silence typically surrounding this topic.

I've organized or supported 14 more Cafes in the 14 months since that first 60 person gathering at the Bijou Cafe. They've taken place at restaurants, churches, community centers, my Reed College reunion, and a co-housing community.

And just last Sunday we held our first "mobile Death Cafe" - a road trip to the White Eagle Memorial Preserve, a natural burial ground two-and-a-half hours from Portland. 
On the drive up and back our carpools discussed questions such as: 

• What do you know about your ancestors? 
• What were the burial practices in your family and how connected to them were you, growing up? 
• What associations do you have with cemeteries? 
• What do you want to have happen to your body when you die?

And now that more than 500 people have engaged with our local Death Cafe scene, the media is starting to pay attention. Last week Peter Korn of the Portland Tribune wrote an article with the wonderful title, "O Death, spare me til we talk about it."

While there were a few misquotes (I didn't say Oregonians are "notoriously cheap" and I don't call myself a "death celebrant"), Peter did a great job of covering some of the diverse aspects of the growing movement that's beginning to normalize death in our culture. He retold the story of one of "Green Reaper" Elizabeth Fournier's home burials that I'd featured on my blog and included photos I provided of myself trying out a cremation casket and of my friend Mark, shrouded in the back of a 1962 Chevy Suburban, headed for a green burial in his family's pioneer cemetery.

They also took this amazing photo of my friend and sister home funeral guide Nancy Ward, which graced the front page of the paper for the five days it was on the newsstands.

The Tribune article seems to have opened the floodgates. Among other media inquiries came an invitation to discuss Death Cafes on Oregon Public Broadcasting's Think Out Loud. Click the image if you'd like to hear the interview, which generated nearly 50 requests to join our notification list in just the first few hours after it aired. Among the comments coming in: "Glad I found you!" and "Thank you for getting this topic out into public. Much needed. I am a social worker who has seem too many 'bad' deaths occur in hospitals."

Next up, courtesy of some of PDX Death Cafe's creative facilitators, an August Death Picnic. I love this town!

When my father died, my step-mother sent away for his veteran's flag. His three years in the Air Force hadn't been a primary theme in his life; he hadn't seen combat. But she thought I should have it. 

I displayed it, still folded in its tight, crisp triangle, when I created a memorial service for him six months after his death. And then it went into the basement. I'm afraid it didn't fare well there, between the soot from the old furnace chimney we demolished and the the misbehavior of our two cats. I felt ashamed of my neglect. While I never planned to fly the flag, I knew it deserved better.

What does one do with family keepsakes and heirlooms when one doesn't have children? If I'd had a son, I would have entrusted him with the care of the flag. 

I don't have a son. But I do have a godson. A seven year-old godson who has a mild fascination with "Army guys" and uniforms and the like. A godson who, having been adopted, sometimes has questions about where and whether he belongs.

I checked with his moms to make sure they'd feel okay about me passing on this potent symbol to Bennett. I took the musty flag to the drycleaners. When I picked it up, folded over the hanger, I was astonished by its size. Of course - big enough to drape over a casket. 

I enlisted the staff at Elmer's Flag & Banner - one of those Main Street establishments you pass by for years without ever venturing into - to fold it properly, and then I bought a protective plastic case.

I brought it to Bennett's house on Memorial Day, along with a jade jewelry set that my father had given my mother, which I planned to pass on to my goddaughter Ava. (Yes, I'm a little dismayed at the gender conformity displayed by my designation of these items, but then again, my spouse Amber is now in proud possession of my grandfather's pocket watch.)

We gathered around the dining room table, Bennett and Ava and I, joined by their moms, their two grandmothers, and their one living grandfather. I began by asking, "Do you two know what family heirlooms are?"

Though they nodded "no," when I defined the word they had no trouble telling me why family heirlooms are important. We talked about how they help us know where we came from. How those who come before us help create the world that brings us into being. How remembering them helps us know who we are and where we belong.

I pulled the flag out of a bag and asked Bennett if he would do me the honor of being the keeper of my dad's flag, of helping me to remember my dad, to keep him a member of our living family even though he'd gone on to the spirit world. I shared a photo of my dad in uniform and talked a little about his time in the service. Ben took the flag with what felt like awed reverence.

I gave Ava the jewelry set, featuring a jade pendant engraved with Chinese characters, explaining that I wanted her to have it both as a keepsake from my parent's marriage and as a nod to her Chinese heritage. We talked a bit more about the rich treasure chest of family stories sitting around the table, embodied in their grandparents, and how family heirlooms could unlock those treasures.

Lastly, for their joint stewardship I gave them one of the memorial stones created from some of my dad's ashes. When I'd first received them, fresh from the wood-fueled earth kiln in which they'd been fired, Ava and Ben had been fascinated and asked for one. "We'll see," I said at the time, explaining they were kind of like a tombstone, a special physical connection to someone no longer living, a way to remember.

Now, in front of their family shrine, I asked if they would still like to be the keepers of one of my dad's stones, if he could share space with their ancestors, if our ancestors could be together. 

They accepted the call, and placed my dad's photo and his stone alongside the other sacred objects on their ancestor's shrine. 

*          *          *

Happy Father's Day, Dad! For more on my journey with my father: The story of his memorial stones, how I found Forgiveness, the surprising end to his memorial ceremony,  marking the 10-year anniversary of his death, the belated eulogy I wrote for him, and the raspberries that always remind me.

When Amber and I invited 100 friends and family to celebrate our relationship with us twelve years ago in White Salmon, we didn't call it a wedding. While we'd been together five years by then and wanted to pledge ourselves to each other publicly, the words "wedding" and "marriage" weren't important to us at the time. But we noticed that everyone else called it our wedding, especially our straight friends.

In the years since then, America has been having a conversation about why marriage matters, recognizing that it’s about love and commitment, and standing up before your family and friends to pledge yourselves to each other. We came to realize that we did marry that day in White Salmon, marriage license or no, that proclaiming our intentions in front of everyone changed our relationship, consecrated it in ways we couldn’t have anticipated.

And so when Judge McShane declared that we - along with all loving and committed couples in Oregon - could now add the legal icing on the cake, we didn’t want to dishonor what had come before by "getting married" again. With my mom and step-dad coming for a visit from the east coast we decided to hold a simple, family-only, vow renewal in our backyard.

Our White Salmon ceremony had been absolutely perfect. We paid homage to that magical day by reviving several elements: the vows we'd written; the beautiful altar quilt combining my fire with Amber's calm that Marcy had created; my lovely jewelry made by Maura; the commemorative needlepoint my mom had fashioned; foregoing catering for a potluck meal contributed by participants.

But there were several new elements that felt important to include this time. First and foremost, I wanted the four children in our lives, not yet born when we last stood up before our loved ones, to have their understanding of what makes a family shaped by witnessing our commitment. They indulged me by wearing flower crowns, and we indulged them by encouraging bubble blowing throughout our brief ceremony.

Equally important to us was the opportunity to step across the historic threshold of legal matrimony with the woman who's done more than anyone in our personal community and our state to make this act possible: Thalia Zepatos. When Thalia and her husband Mike brought their communities together to celebrate their marriage, they committed themselves to the day that all of us could do the same. Thalia has not only worked for the freedom to marry full-time for 10 years, by leading the movement's message work, she’s helped countless Americans think about their gay and lesbian family members and neighbors differently. We asked Thalia to obtain the credentials to pronounce us legally married as an expression of immense gratitude and appreciation for the role she’s played in our lives for over 25 years now. 

What a thrill it was to hear Thalia say the words she's worked so hard to win for us: "By the authority vested in me by the state of Oregon, I now pronounce you spoused for life!"

Finally, there were two traditional elements we had foregone in our White Salmon ceremony. 

A wedding ring, for me out and about in the world, had always seemed like an invitation to the inevitable question about my husband. That particular symbol didn't feel important to us at the time. But now, with the world so rapidly changing, we wanted to make our new status as a legally married couple outwardly visible. Choosing to use rings handed down from my maternal grandparents (mine, given to my grandmother then to my mother then to me; Amber's, made of their wedding rings now joined together forever) honored their legacy of commitment and how much we've come to value family.

And on the more whimsical side, I had been enchanted by a Facebook post on the day Judge McShane ruled. My friend Kate Brassington had celebrated with her three young daughters by baking a mini wedding cake decorated with same-sex toppers created by her twins Shaelyn and Davia. She jokingly posted that they'd be happy to create custom toppers for others. I couldn't resist taking them up on it! The girls took their task very seriously, offering us two versions so we could mix and match gender presentations. 

From the perfection of our White Salmon ceremony to the political theater of our first legal wedding at the Lucky Lab Brew Pub on International Women's Day in 2004 (later declared "Null & Void" when voters approved a constitutional ban)... to the exquisite sweetness of our June 1 vow renewal... I could say "third time's the charm." But the truth is, we have felt charmed throughout these 18 years together. We feel profoundly grateful and truly blessed.

Read more stories:
My Big (Null & Void) Gay Wedding: Our White Salmon and Lucky Lab ceremonies.
Yes, I'll Marry You: A whirlwind tour through my 26 years of activism for LGBT equality.
The Perfect Bookend to a Long Chapter: Kelly and Dolores sharing their role in history with their children.
Old Married Couple Legally Weds: Another couple navigates the question of how to cross the new legal threshold for the marriage they'd already celebrated.