Disposition: What We Leave, and What Holds Us

Most of us understand disposition as something practical. A document. A decision. A task to be completed in advance of death.

But in practice, disposition is rarely just administrative.

It is cultural. It is relational. It carries memory, belief, and belonging. How we imagine our body being cared for after death often reflects how we understand ourselves in life, where we come from, and who we hope will remember us.

Disposition is not only about what happens to a body. It is about continuity.

I grew up in Ireland, where death was rarely hidden. When someone died, they were brought home. The body lay in the front room. Neighbours arrived quietly, without invitation. Food appeared. Stories circulated alongside tea and sandwiches. Children were present. Death was not removed from daily life; it was folded into it.

Much of what happened during those days was not written down. It was guided by custom, by shared understanding, by a sense of what was simply done. The body mattered, not because it needed to be managed efficiently, but because it still belonged to the community.

In contrast, much of modern deathcare asks us to decide in isolation. We are encouraged to plan early, to minimize burden, to make choices that are efficient and discreet. These tools are not without value. But when they become the only frame, something essential is lost.

Disposition becomes transactional rather than relational.

For many people, decisions about the body are shaped by far more than preference. By faith or its absence. By migration, colonization, estrangement, or chosen family. By environmental values. By cost. By trauma. These influences are rarely named directly, yet they are always present.

For those disconnected from family of origin, or whose cultural death practices were interrupted or erased, disposition can feel especially fraught. Who will speak for me? Who will gather? What rituals feel true, and who remembers how to carry them?

There is no universal answer to these questions. But they deserve time and space.

When disposition is approached as conversation rather than conclusion, something shifts. Meaning surfaces. Grief is anticipated rather than deferred. Those who will remain are offered not just instructions, but context.

Disposition, at its best, is not a final task. It is an act of relationship. A way of acknowledging that death, like life, is never solitary.