Death's Value
from the 'Messy Middle Project' - when you have some wisdom, but also know nothing
Christopher Durang died a few days ago and many theatre people are posting their tributes. When people touch my heart, especially those who have similar passions and purpose, it always hits harder.
I’m reminded of how often I hesitate and don’t take action. That there is no time like the present. That I care more about people than I believe they care about me, and how lonely it makes me feel. That there are possibly people who care more about me than I care about them (although that possibility is harder for me to believe.)
I had a brief text conversation with a friend about death and its impact on those of us left behind and she said something so touching to me…
“Oh I’m not worried at all about my eventual death, in fact I’m so well prepared that I have to remind myself to live.”
Ooooof. That’s real.
I know that the key to peace and happiness is ultimately getting right with the fact that I am mortal and I am going to die. Once I get comfortable with that truth, theoretically it should enable me to live better and more fully. Even the idea of wasting my life away with my anxieties and depression, self-hatred, and sabotage makes me so angry.
“ I only have so much time! Life is ticking away! Put yourself out there, seize the day!” “Life is too short!”
I agree. It’s true. And yet, I don’t always have the get-up and go to keep my imminent death in focus. I waste days and have wasted years. I have a lot of shame around that. Yet, is it really my fault?
From my perspective, our culture does not talk about death in any real way. We aren’t faced with it regularly. It isn’t normalized. I see articles about 90+ year-old people who die of natural causes and people say how awful it is, and what a shame and how horrible it is. Death is treated like a big surprise when in actuality, it makes total sense that someone of that age would die.
I want to judge my death and dying by how well I’ve lived. Did I pursue my gifts to the best of my ability? Did I embrace myself? Did I learn to love myself and find some peace and equanimity in the face of decades of conditioning telling me to do the opposite?
I feel like our culture vilifies getting older, especially with women. How dare we get ‘up in age’? Yet, we are also told that we should appreciate the fact that we are healthy, and be grateful. Well, which one is it? Which one am I supposed to feel? It’s no secret that being a woman is a losing game, and if I were smart, I would just quit playing. There’s no winning, and what makes the most sense is to follow my own inner wisdom, because at the end of the day, when I’m dying (hopefully comfortably and surrounded by loved ones) I can say I got it right at some point.
But I don’t know. Aging and getting older has been ingrained in me as something to be terrified of. Most people I have spoken to about getting older say it sucks. They have nothing good to say about it. They talk about their ailments, diseases, conditions, doctor visits, and losing friends and family. They aren’t wrong per se, but should I submit to that as well? Should I fall down the rabbit hole of apathy? Or is there an in-between that is acceptance of what’s happening AND a fire that says I can beat the odds? I can learn new things, and try new adventures no matter what age I am. That age doesn’t mean all is lost and there’s nothing else to experience. I am fighting against a tide that is strong. One that wants us to lie down and complain instead of finding the value in our years?
When I visited India, I went to a magical city called Varanasi. Regarded as the spiritual capital of India, the city draws Hindu pilgrims who bathe in the Ganges River’s sacred waters and perform funeral rites. On the edges of the water, they cremate something like 100 people a day. I won’t get into the reasons why here, but, death is in your face. Literally. The smoke of the cremation fires wafts over the water and gets in your eyes, hair, and clothes. You breathe it in.
I was walking the streets when a group of people started walking towards us carrying a body wrapped in white cloths, heading towards the cremation site at the water. No coffin, no cars, no hiding. I just couldn’t believe what I was seeing and feeling. I wanted to flee this place and at the same time, stay there forever. In Varanasi, death is all around, yet it’s also one of the most busy, chaotic, alive places I’ve ever been. Crossing the street takes Olympian courage. The spices, music, and incense in the air are intoxicating. Monkeys jump to the street from roofs, and cows stand in the middle of the street. It’s brash and dirty and incredibly liberating. You know you’re alive when you’re in Varanasi.
When I came back to the States, I was struck by how sterile death can feel here. I was reminded of the funerals I’ve been to, where the bodies are embalmed, and people talk in hushed voices in parlors. Even crying too much or too loudly just doesn’t feel right in those spaces. Hold it in, don’t express your pain, or allow anyone else to see it. Kind of like how I sometimes feel I’m living my life. UGGGGHHHH! NO!
Tackling my mortality is a touchy subject. It’s scary to acknowledge I’m going to die. Even a few short years ago, I wasn’t ready to meditate on it at all. When Covid hit, and so many people were dying, I think I turned a corner. I went through one of the darkest times of my life, as many did. People are forced to die without their consent all the time. Only the lucky of us get to say when and how we pass on to the ‘other side.’ My dog Romy is a senior and when I think about losing her, I’m also forced to consider my death. So I get on the floor and play with her and squeeze her and tell her how dear she is to me. If I am smart, I will do the same for myself. Play, squeeze, and give loving affirmations.
Playing with the idea of my own death allows me to play with my capacity to love. Because if I’m free within the knowledge of my death, I can give my love away. There will always be more for those I choose to gift it.
So, circling back to Christopher Durang and those we’ve recently lost, whether close to us or not.
We are all connected. Christopher’s death is mine. The love, talent, and incredible writing he shared with us are mine, if I choose to use them. I can choose to allow each death to be a guiding light towards the life I want to live. Beautiful and complicated; the great roller coaster ride that it is.
©️Kimberly Dillon. All rights reserved. 2024
Varanasi! - sounds like a place full of the human experience, beauty, death and in between!