The war in Afghanistan, the unemployment rate in America, and the never-ending battles men and women endure to somehow find “the one”… all of these subjects intrigue me greatly, but I’ll admit however dismal a theme; I want to stick with “life”. Notice I don’t say heaven or hell, choosing the life of a pagan or a religious zealot, or death.
I’m a person who inherently doesn't believe in putting too much emphasis on the variables outside of my control – not that much of life is in my control to begin with, but I’m naïve enough to protest – that free will is driven by our choices, and more than anything how we choose to respond. Our character is gauged on how we act with the rest of the world – our family, friends, significant others, mentors, enemies, allies and the strangers on the street, who only intersect our lives for a milisecond, but the impact they make can affect us forever.
I received some beautiful emails after my last entry… and so I’m grateful that my words might resonate… I have never doubted the strength of language, however I write this with hesitation; I’ve never been quite convinced that my own words could make a difference. I type with a fervent desire to not just be heard, but for every person who reads to identify…. And walk away feeling understood.
There is great power in feeling understood.
I have a limited window of time in which I can contemplate the “cycle of existence” from afar. For the next three days, I don’t have to have closure… this whole “Death” thing has been put on pause. But the inevitable will arrive- I will wear my black cashmere sweater, there will be eulogies, and conversations consisting of weather requium. But until then I can observe life from a distance. I know come Tuesday, this calmness, this almost analytical approach in how peaceful I am could change dramatically. And that is a reality I’m trying to prepare myself to face.
Death brings out the softness in people… just like alcohol is truth serum, death draws emotion – it allows vulnerabilities to surface. And there is something terribly liberating and also terrifying about that.
Life arrives in a pretty standard format; we’re born, we learn how to walk, we attend elementary school, and we have guitar lessons and soccer practice. We undergo adolescence, we reach high school, we discover the joys associated with the opposite gender, unearth our interests, go to college and dive face first into a career… a vocation in which we’re supposed to pursue fearlessly, and we evolve into adults. Then there is the significant other, the white dress, and the mortgage; there are 2.5 children and a picket fence. There is tuition then there are caps and gowns and throwing graduation parties for your kids. They leave to start their own beginnings and you’re supposed to rekindle the sparks with your spouse and leisurely enjoy the years and compounded interest leftover. And then it’s over.
That’d be the skeletal outline… the required curriculum. There will always be the electives, the addendums, the stop-outs, the unusual diversions, the opportunities, the hells… sickness, awards, relocating, divorces, 2nd marriages, the unanticipated events that redirect our course of action. There are the lives ended abruptly, those that linger for more than a century, misfortunate, success… some born brilliant, other born with more challenges than a medical textbook could diagnose, but we all share something….
When we’re born we’re genetically wired to survive.
Some more so than others, some lives so tainted they choose to exit early, but the bottom line, the common denominator is we as homo sapiens persevere. We will ourselves to stay alive. My hope is that we fight death as a civilization because we have something valuable to offer humanity. Some skill set or ability that separates us from the masses, each of us will make a definable, a measurable difference.
But often I wonder if it’s a fear of death that keeps us running toward the future….
Sometimes sprinting so fast we don’t have time to stop and catch our breathe. And by the time we slow down, it’s too late to look in the review mirror, to carefully consider choices, to say the correct words, to be kind, to remove ourselves from toxic relationships, to learn how to cook, read enough literature, to feel wet sand between our toes? To stare into the pink and yellow and azure of a sunset until the stars are twinkling in the sky - and to risk everything in order to attain that mystical and enchanting, westernized version love. The category of love where resumes and rulebooks don’t matter…
A love to paint, to sing, to engineer something? The love to travel the world with a single suitcase, to abandon worry and forego the “status quo" … and strategize anyway possible to give that love, that dream, that feverish desire that leaves you weak at the knees a chance. The kind of love for something or someone that leaves you exhausted, empty of energy and overflowing with the rush of endorphins you can't stop grinning? The kind of love that odds and statistics and logic say - impossible... but your heart whispers, "Yes, yes you can."
There is the idiom, “Youth is wasted on the young.” … insinuating that humans are not equipped to grasp the meanings, the how-tos, the supposed-tos until we’re weathered and wrinkled. And this argument frustrates me… I want to do life right, right now.
And so I wonder if there is anyway to live in a way, in the present moment, so when we exhale for the last time… We can smile knowing there is absolutely nothing left?
