A few days ago, a friend that I somewhat knew, but that Micki had known for the duration of her time in our small town, passed away from a shockingly sudden disease. This friend was a fixture in our community, beloved by everyone and as much of a celebrity as one can be locally. He was a genuinely kind and caring person and he is now gone. His loss was devastating and the pain was magnified by the abrupt nature of his passing. It has left us feeling wretched.
When someone close dies, we feel the keeness of our own mortality creeping around the edges of our lives. We try and fail to imagine ourselves in the place of these friends and loved ones. I have, at a funeral years ago, when friends were grieving the untimely loss of a child, wondered what it would be like if this was for one of our own children. Macabre as it may seem, we do structure our lives in such a way as to be insulated from death, experiencing it from afar, even when it is a loved-one.
We know that death is inevitable, but even so, we are startled and often destroyed by the horror of loss. We dread the idea of death and we give so much to the false consolations that we hope will allow us to somehow go on. As a result, the funeral industry has become an exceedingly lucrative business. Some of our culture surrounding the concept of death is quite bizarre but also based on a startling lack of awareness about life.
Humanity spends a great deal of our incredibly valuable time pretending that there is an unlimited fund of life to draw from. I’m guilty of this and so are you. We have become so used to the plodding rhythm of the passage of our lives that we daily fool ourselves into thinking that tomorrow, next week, next month, next year are granted to us and that we will be as we are now through it all. This delusion, to some extent, allows us to keep from falling into the bleak, soul-eating despair at the realization of our unavoidable deaths. Yet, I think it is possible to be reflective of our mortality, live accordingly, while not descending into inconsolable depression.
Most of us look to the consolation of some form of religious or ethical system, which I admit can be helpful in the appropriate amounts. The trick, like in everything else, is to not agree to be willfully deluded into thinking that there is a special dispensation when it comes to our mortality. Afterlife, such as it is, may ease or calm the stress of someone who dreads the idea of the party ending. However, it is foolhardy to believe that there is a place when we die where we can say or do the things that we have been putting off. We must say the things we need to say today. There is no other time and no monotheistic worldview really makes that clear.
Science and philosophy haven’t brought us back news from beyond life. All evidence is that when we die, we simply stop. Despite the paltry, arid books that have been written by those who claim to have seen a white light or glowing tunnel to the great beyond, there is no data to support claims of life past the death of the physical body outside of speculative or horror fiction and religious 'nonfiction' (which are basically the same thing). As Hamlet so eloquently stated, death is a country from whose borders no one returns.
When looking for some grounding in accepting our mortality, especially without the requisite life-threatening illness or disaster, I have found the Japanese to be a good foundation for understanding our mortality. In the feudal writings of the masters of bushido (the art of the samurai) there is much to commend on this topic. Death, which they were aware of both in its inevitability and finality, wasn’t something to be feared, but expected. There was no dread in death. It was unavoidable, but the samurai intended that their death should occur, as much as could be helped, within the parameters of their own control. Thus, they meditated on death and the many ways in which one might die. They did this not out of morbid fascination (though it might seem so to us) but in order that they should be as prepared as possible. Like with their weapons, the samurai understood that taking care to think of all outcomes, they would at least be ready.
The other half of this mindset is less complicated but no less appropriate. We simply need to understand that death isn’t a bad thing in itself. Yes, it is devastating for those who survive when we go and it is equally devastating when we lose someone dear to us. But those misfortunes are not evil. Not really. They are just how things are. It is unfair, heartbreaking, crushing and yet as real and unchangeable as a mountain. So our attitude can only change when we realize that we are not immune to “the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to”, again quoting Hamlet. This is the moment we have to be a better person, to get help, to do that project, to take on that role, to face a friend or loved one and admit that we were wrong, to make clear our desire to live in the moment.
The plain fact is, we have no time. The bank that we draw on is an illusion. As the samurai understood, death is imminent. There is no consolation of human making that could ever assuage that horrible reality, but we can (if we are mindful) try to be the best in the moment that we can be. We will fail (of course) and we will fall, but it is better to live fully than to pretend that we will be here forever. In imagining that, we will only cause more pain.
I do not know when I will die. Some people do know or at least have some sense. Those people will not mince words about the reality of their situation. But we shouldn’t believe for a moment that their plight is any different than our own. That may seem morbid, especially when we consider the promise of life, our hopes, our dreams, our wildest wishes. Realizing our own mortality isn’t meant to be a brake pulled on those things, rather, it is to temper our willing self-delusion. If all we have is this moment, how much more fully would we want to live in that brief speck of life? How much more would we want to achieve our dreams, or give them over and just be with the people who mean the most to us?
Sadness and grieving only last for a short time. The memories of our friends and loved ones stay with us and that is the magic of love, for if we love someone, their life abides in us. That is the only way in which the afterlife seems appealing to me. It gives me hope that I will try to live my life in such a way that, when I am gone, my family and friends, after a season of sorrow, will rejoice in memories and experiences we shared. If I live on in the hearts and minds of those that love me, what other afterlife do I need? Within that blessed thought, there is no fear, no real sadness, no emptiness. Rather, there is joy, love, life, memory and hope. As bleak as it seems, I find solace in the idea that I will not always be here. At some point it will be time to go and when that happens (though I am in no hurry) I will try to die well.
In the meantime, while others lament their loss at a public funeral or life celebration reception, I will probably not attend. Too much about the modern culture of funerals is appalling to me; too much of it is performative. Who is the saddest person, who was the dearest friend, who managed to bring the biggest bouquet of flowers? Instead of a sign of solidarity—and I believe it was originally meant that way —modern funerals have become a ritual of expected participation instead of a sign of suffering as one with the bereaved. Rather than attend our friend's services, I will hope to honor him in my own way and when grief departs and we can laugh, as we share stories of our brief moments together, I hope some of his contagious joy will spread to others and that he will touch lives beyond the reach of his earthly time.
When my own time comes, my celebration of life will be what my family wants it to be. I will not be there as I am now, but only in their hearts. May I earn that place by trying to be the best I can be today. And may I not fear or dread death, nor falsely believe in my own immortality, but simply try to live in the moment, joyously and with a grateful heart for those who have and continue to love me and I them. I hope that I will always live understanding that all we have is today.
No comments:
Post a Comment