Death Becomes Us
By the age of 12 I had been to more funerals than -- I thought -- some others did in a lifetime. If Rucks funeral home gave frequent flyer miles I was sure, no doubt about it, that I had earned at least two complimentary cups of coffee and privileged seating in the beat-up barcaloungers in the family recovery room.
I grew up in a large Italian family and many of my aunts and uncles and extended relatives decided to leave this earth en masse -- over the course of a decade my family numbers were cut in half. There were times, I am sure, when my mother questioned whether to send my child's suit to the cleaners for fear of when it would be needed next.
I have been to funerals for people who have died very young. I've been to funerals for those who have died very old. I've been to funerals for those who have left us suddenly, and for those who had time to say goodbye. I've seen all emotions at funerals... shock, happiness, rage, fear, gentle saddness, and plain acceptance. I could write a Dr. Seuss book: Oh The Funerals I've Seen.
And every last one of these funerals has placed in me a single thought:
Ed, buddy ol' pal, you are gonna die and this world is gonna keep on rotating along without you.
It's a thought I keep with me constantly, much to the consternation of anyone who has ever spoken with me on the subject. I guarantee you it made me one heck of a troubled 12 year old.
But I have seen some small benefit from the lingering consciousness of my human condition: I try really hard. I approach things and think "how can I make my mark on this new thing". Some people, I'm sure, see this as arrogance or competition. It isn't, really. I just need to do everything I do as best as I can do it. Why?
Ed, buddy ol' pal, you are gonna die and this world is gonna keep on rotating along without you.
Does the constant morbidity help? I'm not sure... I know Halloween has become my favorite holiday, though. I also know that I don't mind so much when I fail at things anymore because I know I gave it my best. I also know that I fail at fewer things than I used to. And I also know that when our frail and human condition is paraded in front of my mind -- as was the case with the two funerals I attended last week -- I am no longer filled with the desperate, fearful urge to improve my life.
I know too many -- myself included -- who at some point were hit with a familial death that shook them to the very root of their being. We had all experienced the dread of "is it too late to change my ways". Perhaps like Scrooge... "Oh spirit of Christmas future, are these images of things that will be or of things that might be?"
In this vein my favorite movie scene was the ending of "Saving Private Ryan" when an elderly Ryan comes to visit Arlington National Cemetary and tearfully begs his wife to confirm that he had, indeed, led a good and worthwhile life. It is a universal quandry to see people go before you, younger or older, wiser or not, and to sit back and wonder: What cosmic humor leaves me standing to carry on contributions to the human race?
So how do we go on? How do we live lives of meaning? After 31 years, my best answer to that is perspective -- to know where we are in time and space and what new things we can put our mark on. What is the most effective perspective-giving tool in my emotional toolbox?
Ed, buddy ol' pal, you are gonna die and this world is gonna keep on rotating along without you.
Who knew Death was such a motiviational speaker? I've completely sidestepped faith in this blog entry as I don't like to talk about religion or politics in a public forum. Suffice it to say that I have enough to get me through my day and still have thoughts on these issues.
But putting faith aside for just a moment, there is something in death that spurs us forward, once the grief has gone: We become those who bear the responsibility of remembrance and the carriers of our familial legacies. We are reminded that we must live as much as we can while we can not just to honor those who cannot but because we realize, one day, that we also will not.
As such, and in only respectful ways, these deaths become us. I will consider myself lucky and happy if, when I take my turn, someone looks at me not there anymore and is shaken to their core to go out and live their lives as much as they can, while they can, for them and for the memory of me.
Until then, and as always...
Ed, buddy ol' pal, you are gonna die and this world is gonna keep on rotating along without you.
-Ed
I grew up in a large Italian family and many of my aunts and uncles and extended relatives decided to leave this earth en masse -- over the course of a decade my family numbers were cut in half. There were times, I am sure, when my mother questioned whether to send my child's suit to the cleaners for fear of when it would be needed next.
I have been to funerals for people who have died very young. I've been to funerals for those who have died very old. I've been to funerals for those who have left us suddenly, and for those who had time to say goodbye. I've seen all emotions at funerals... shock, happiness, rage, fear, gentle saddness, and plain acceptance. I could write a Dr. Seuss book: Oh The Funerals I've Seen.
And every last one of these funerals has placed in me a single thought:
Ed, buddy ol' pal, you are gonna die and this world is gonna keep on rotating along without you.
It's a thought I keep with me constantly, much to the consternation of anyone who has ever spoken with me on the subject. I guarantee you it made me one heck of a troubled 12 year old.
But I have seen some small benefit from the lingering consciousness of my human condition: I try really hard. I approach things and think "how can I make my mark on this new thing". Some people, I'm sure, see this as arrogance or competition. It isn't, really. I just need to do everything I do as best as I can do it. Why?
Ed, buddy ol' pal, you are gonna die and this world is gonna keep on rotating along without you.
Does the constant morbidity help? I'm not sure... I know Halloween has become my favorite holiday, though. I also know that I don't mind so much when I fail at things anymore because I know I gave it my best. I also know that I fail at fewer things than I used to. And I also know that when our frail and human condition is paraded in front of my mind -- as was the case with the two funerals I attended last week -- I am no longer filled with the desperate, fearful urge to improve my life.
I know too many -- myself included -- who at some point were hit with a familial death that shook them to the very root of their being. We had all experienced the dread of "is it too late to change my ways". Perhaps like Scrooge... "Oh spirit of Christmas future, are these images of things that will be or of things that might be?"
In this vein my favorite movie scene was the ending of "Saving Private Ryan" when an elderly Ryan comes to visit Arlington National Cemetary and tearfully begs his wife to confirm that he had, indeed, led a good and worthwhile life. It is a universal quandry to see people go before you, younger or older, wiser or not, and to sit back and wonder: What cosmic humor leaves me standing to carry on contributions to the human race?
So how do we go on? How do we live lives of meaning? After 31 years, my best answer to that is perspective -- to know where we are in time and space and what new things we can put our mark on. What is the most effective perspective-giving tool in my emotional toolbox?
Ed, buddy ol' pal, you are gonna die and this world is gonna keep on rotating along without you.
Who knew Death was such a motiviational speaker? I've completely sidestepped faith in this blog entry as I don't like to talk about religion or politics in a public forum. Suffice it to say that I have enough to get me through my day and still have thoughts on these issues.
But putting faith aside for just a moment, there is something in death that spurs us forward, once the grief has gone: We become those who bear the responsibility of remembrance and the carriers of our familial legacies. We are reminded that we must live as much as we can while we can not just to honor those who cannot but because we realize, one day, that we also will not.
As such, and in only respectful ways, these deaths become us. I will consider myself lucky and happy if, when I take my turn, someone looks at me not there anymore and is shaken to their core to go out and live their lives as much as they can, while they can, for them and for the memory of me.
Until then, and as always...
Ed, buddy ol' pal, you are gonna die and this world is gonna keep on rotating along without you.
-Ed
posted by Ed at 4:30 PM
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