The Healings Questionnaire No. 3: Katy St. Clair
The Healings Questionnaire No. 3: Katy St. Clair
A Q&A about death and god: “The fear I have of death is the unknown. I have spent my life trying to feel some semblance of control by knowing everything.”
Once upon a time, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Mark Zuckerberg was still in high school, the dream of any aspiring writer was to see their name in print, preferably on the cover of something. Katy St. Clair is the person who made that dream a reality for me. Back when I had just graduated college, with nothing more than a few ‘zine clips to my name, Katy accepted a pitch of mine when she as an editor at the East Bay Express, one of many now-defunct alt-weekly papers that used to serve as the voice of their communities, particularly when it came to local music. What started as regular assignments of album reviews and concert previews eventually became musician profiles (ahem) and then 5,000 word cover stories, and before I knew it I was starting to think of myself as a professional writer, and I have Katy to thank for that.
Katy has worked as a journalist in the Bay Area now for over three decades, and remains one of the most curious and compassionate writers I know. When she’s not filing stories, she’s frequently volunteering, often with organizations that help the developmentally disabled. These interests came together for one of the best music stories I’ve ever read, about the enduring bond between Huey Lewis and the surprisingly large cohort of developmentally disabled fans who adore him, which was anthologized in De Capo’s Best Music Writing series.
I was so thrilled when Katy accepted my invite to complete the Healings Questionnaire. She’s always been the kind of person who could slip deep philosophical insights into her work, even (or especially) when it’s a piece about local politics or a column about bar-hopping. What would she say when I asked her these questions directly? Well, here’s what.
What happens when we die?
No one really knows, and as The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy figured out, the meaning of life is 42. That said, I have a few observations.
Who among us hasn’t been drawn into the appealing stories of near-death experiences? I believe they happen, but I’m not convinced it’s not a function of our brains calming us before the lights go out completely. For a long time, all the accounts I read seemed to say the same thing: A white, loving light beckons us and we hold no judgments toward ourselves or others as we realize that love is and has always been the answer. Then I dug a bit further and read that in Hindu cultures, near-death experiences involve being surrounded by benevolent cows. Hm, that throws a nonviolent spanner into the works.
One thing I haven’t been able to fully reconcile or discount is things I’ve heard from people I love who’ve lost someone, often a child. I had a boyfriend who’s brother had a fatal disease when he was very little, and a few days before he died he would tell his family that a beloved uncle who had died was coming to see him at night. People who work in hospice also tell these stories. Then there was the husband of a friend of mine who was dying, so they set up a hospital bed in their living room so that he could die there. He liked having the window open next to him, and two animals he didn’t know jumped through the window and into his bed the day of his death, a cat and a raccoon. I also read about a cat in a hospice home that would go to the beds of whoever was about to die and sit with them. Surely something spiritual is going on there, unless you hate cats, in which case that’s just the universe being cheeky.
Now, let’s talk about actual death. Slowly the brain shuts down, one would think (oh God I hope so). I believe we enter into wherever we were before we were born and imbued with life. If that place was terrible, we sure don’t remember it. And if there is nothing, and we are no more, not even a soul, then that’s OK with me. The thought of existing for eternity seems tiring. And if we do keep going with our consciousness, are we 25 years old again? When people with Down syndrome die, do they lose their disability? I doubt it.
I think we can look at biology. In fact, I knew a woman who died and before she passed, she found comfort in knowing that her energy and atoms would be transferred elsewhere. This we know happens by looking at plants and animals and what happens to their molecules after they die. Energy cannot be created or destroyed.
On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being terrified and 1 being it’s never crossed your mind, how afraid are you of dying? Explain.
I hold more fear of losing people I love, such as my parents who are both over 80, than I do my own death. But I’m at about an 8 in terms of fearing my own death. At 55 with no partner or children, lately I have been wondering if I have made any mark in this world, if anyone would be at my funeral; I picture people I don't know zipping me up in some bag and putting me in the morgue meat locker. In short, I’m in a mid-life existential crisis. I do, strangely, find the idea of being cremated comforting: It’s warm and means I won’t be embalmed, mouth and eyes sewn closed and dressed in some bad peplum number from Chico’s, then stuffed in a mid-priced coffin (thanks in advance for that GoFundMe contribution!).
The fear I have of death is the unknown. I have spent my life trying to feel some semblance of control by knowing everything. Which brings me to my next point: You can’t take it with you. I don’t think the afterlife cares what the name of Charo’s character on The Love Boat was (April Lopez, the paramour of Honest Tex) or that the Bee Gees began as a skiffle group.
What’s the closest you’ve come to death? What did you learn, if anything?
I have never come close to death, though I did magically survive mixing alcohol with hydrocodone on many an occasion. But the first time I was hit with the profundity of it all was when my friend Josh died at 19 from cancer. I couldn’t wrap my head around someone as dynamic and loved dying. I had my first foray into regrets for not visiting him enough in the hospital, and how I interacted with him there when I did, which, 35 years later, I have repeated with everyone else in my life who has passed. There’s a real selfishness I feel when I lose someone, and I think that’s OK. It’s not diving into the regrets that does the person a disservice. Ultimately, we all do the best we can.
Do you believe in God? Explain.
I refuse to apply human qualities to anything spiritual, so no. Our existence is the last second of the last hour of December 31 on the calendar of earth, so if anything, God is a tardigrade. I have a deep, visceral response to people who say God allowed something to happen or not happen. This is the highest conceit a person can hold. But to deny that nothing is connected or spiritual is also a conceit. Thus, I remain an agnostic.
Do you have a spiritual practice? If so, what is it? If not, why not?
I dabble in Buddhism, which makes the most sense to me, because I believe that facing truths head-on is a good muscle to flex. Accepting that there is suffering is doing just that. I also do things that keep me centered, like swimming, gardening, seeing friends, even cleaning my house. I get endorphins from being kind to people and standing up for people who don’t have a voice. I believe that we can put things out into the universe, either good or bad, and that they can snowball. I’ve seen it in my own life and the lives of others.
Give me an example of a sacred text, for you personally—a work of some kind (book, album, song, painting) that’s essential to the formation of your spiritual worldview. Explain.
There are two books that I turn to when I am feeling despair, Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl and Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. Frankl’s book came to me during a dark time when I wanted to read about someone who had been through bigger shit in a concentration camp. Only now I realize that is actually a part of cognitive behavioral therapy, to compare your situation to someone who has it worse. CBT is also Buddhist in many ways. But reading how Frankl grappled with Big Questions lends credence to the idea that we are not alone with our mysteries.
I came to Letters to a Young Poet after a particularly intense breakup that almost led me to dropping out of college. I was just barely hanging on. My brother suggested reading chapter 8 and it had a profound effect on me. Here was a man compassionately telling a young person that wrote him in despair that he was not alone, and that he could try to view his sadness differently, as something new that has entered his house, but is nonetheless part of the panoply of the human experience. He was basically saying that existence is suffering…yep, Buddhism again. But the reader also knows that Rilke at the time of writing the letter to the young man was in a better place himself, that he had pulled through it though not removed it entirely. The sadness he grappled with remained in his spirit, which made room for it and, most importantly, accepted it. It was then that I realized “the truth shall set you free” wasn’t just a verse in the Bible. It should be a manner of dealing with life on life’s terms.
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Healings is written by Garrett Kamps and edited by Tommy Craggs. Ayana H. Muwwakkil provides art direction.
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