Death's Invitation to Live

The Waking

by Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.

I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?

I hear my being dance from ear to ear.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?

God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,

And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?

The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do

To you and me; so take the lively air,

And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I learn by going where I have to go.

Death's Invitation to Live: an essay

“The Waking” is a love letter, a paean to the wonderful mystery of birth, life, and death. Through his own encounter of being, Theodore Roethke attempts to explain the unexplainable - the ever-shifting awareness of a magical force weaving in and out of everything that exists. He sheds light on the sacredness of the universe’s slow rhythm and asks every heart to live with a sense of openness to the wild call of the present.

We emerge out of darkness, take our first breath free from the watery caress of the womb, and awaken to the mysterious world of the material, only to one day close our eyelids forever more, returning to darkness and eternal slumber. This is the circle of life: to wake, to breathe, to sleep. Yet our numbered years unravel like the tortoise walks - slowly, patiently, and with great care. In Roethke’s words: “I wake to sleep and take my waking slow” (line 1). The process of waking each morning is a daily reminder of the sacred awakening we first experience as infants. In the break of dawn, we stretch our limbs and move slowly from the haven of warm blankets, setting into motion the series of events that will shape the new day. Similarly, as infants, light swallows the darkness of gestation, the first cry rattles our vocal cords alive, and our lungs stretch as we breathe the first of many breaths. We peer through squinted eyelids, wiggle fingers and toes, and discover those strange ligaments are a part of us. We poke the world, test the water, crawl before we walk before we run. Every moment is saturated with meaning. Every second shapes the possibility of being followed by another.

We cannot rush to the future, though it seems we often forget this and try to charge through the river of life rather than flow with it. Too easily, we become lost in the desire to control our realities and demand immediate answers to the uncertainties that haunt us, yet Roethke understood something we could all benefit from taking to heart: “I learn by going where I have to go” (line 3). Here, the use of the word “going” implies leaving something behind to reach a final destination, and note that this destination is not necessarily where we want to go, but where we “have” to go. The only universal destination for every living being is the mysterious port of death, and some great force beyond our understanding drives us closer and closer to this place where being ends. Though we cannot accurately name or define this force, we can marvel at the sound of its presence through a stethoscope. The heartbeat arises at the beginning of being and faithfully divides our existence into a series of seconds. Thus, it is more than appropriate that Roethke’s poem pulses to a similar rhythm. Take, for example, the following line:

“I hear my being dance from ear to ear” (line 5).

By placing emphasis on the words “hear”, “be”, “dance”, “ear”, and “ear”, we can in fact hear the lub-dub of the valves of the heart at work as it cycles the essence of being throughout the body.

But what exactly is being? As we flow from infanthood into adolescence and adulthood, the air becomes thick with questions. Who are we? Why are we? “What is there to know?” (line 4). Life itself is the constant search for meaning. We feel purpose in the warm caress of a lover, in the solidarity of nature, in the gift of kindness and the poignant sting of suffering. We feel the joyful warmth of sunshine and the cold introspection of winter. By witnessing these frames of energy collaborating as a creation of the world outside of us, we “think by feeling” (line 4) and, through the use of our senses, attempt to bring form to that which we cannot understand.

Arguably, there are three significant mysteries that lure the mind of every human being. We wonder, who are we? Where did we come from? What made us? Roethke attempts to answer each of these profound questions through the metaphor of the natural world by capitalizing three words - “Tree” (line 10), “Ground” (line 8), and “Nature” (line 13). Regardless of our tendency to adhere to different religions and systems of belief, we all rise from the dust of the earth; each of our bodies form from the common elements of carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen, to name but a few. Through the miraculous act of reproduction, these elements alchemize beneath the sinew of the womb, form a tiny seed, and eventually sprout as an individual, much like a tree, beautiful and unique unto itself. In this way, our lives are the microcosmic embodiment of the macrocosm. The gargantuan beauty of “Nature” supplies the materialization of the “Ground”, which brings life to the “Tree”. This is perhaps a simplified yet magical interpretation of Christianity’s holy trinity - Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Who we are is where we came from and is what made us.

What a reassuring revelation this is. As we cross over the horizon of death, we are simply reimbursed with that from which we came, and more importantly, with what we truly are. In the light of the realization that all is one, fear of what we do not yet understand falls away, and we are then able to “feel [our] fate in what [we] cannot fear” (line 2). Rather than wasting the precious and finite time of our aging bodies veering away from the trials of the unexpected, we can fully embrace the role as a “lowly worm” that “climbs up a winding stair” (line 11). Although worms are not seen as the most glamorous of creatures, they are truly miraculous beings, capable of regenerating parts of their bodies. However, they are also fatally vulnerable to light. Within an hour of exposure, moisture will entirely evaporate from the worm’s skin, leaving it paralyzed and unable to burrow back into the nutrient-rich darkness. In comparison, we must remember that the darkness of life gives birth to a deeper acknowledgement of who we are. Covered by the dirt of humanity, it is impossible to face true enlightenment, as the knowledge of everything would scorch our understanding of reality. Thus Roethke reminds us to surrender to the laborious climb into eternity, to patiently embrace the darkness, and to pause when necessary to regenerate that which has been wounded.

Only then can we truly understand how intricately life and death are intertwined. There is a sacredness in the way that one cannot exist without the other. The trials and triumphs of life mold our souls like clay in preparation for the day we close our eyelids and awaken to the secrets of the dead. The ever-unfolding present may rattle the bones of what we think we know to be true, but “this shaking keeps [us] steady” (line 16) and only claims the parts of our beings that no longer serve the purpose of our greater good. Even so, that which leaves us never truly disappears. The residue of memory lingers on, allowing every moment to leave an imprint on the malleable surface of our humanity. “What falls away is always. And is near” (line 17); therefore, the falling away of being is far from permanent.

This could mean our souls leave our aged bodies behind and find eternal life elsewhere. Or perhaps it merely hints at the eternal recycling of elements as energy sifts through bodies, land, and air. “Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?” (line 10). Ultimately, this question will remain unanswered for each and every one of us until the final hour of our journey - the hour of the last heartbeat, the last breath, and our individual return to slumber. Yet we must refuse the temptation to live in anticipation or fear of this moment. Life is a journey, and the journey itself is the destination. Significance hides beneath the skin of that which seems insignificant, and so we must take our waking slow, taste the wonder of every moving second, and learn by going where we have to go.