My Aunt Sarah was on her death bed, and her brother (my Uncle John) was at her bedside; knowing her time was near he was determined not to leave her. He wanted to be present as she passed from this life. And indeed he was. He and I spoke candidly about the magnitude of her passing; not just the reality of losing his sister, but also the awesome, indescribably profound and undoing emotion that accompanies the end of a life.
Some years later I was at his bedside, witnessing his slow and shallow breaths, breaths that were separated by an abnormal amount of time. Finally . . . the breaths stopped . . . and I felt his carotid. Nothing.
And I reflected on our previous conversation from years before. My uncle was an atheist . . . but he and I shared something in common: we both believed in the sanctity, the inestimable value, the awesome reality of life sensed most acutely when you witness it passing away. The goneness is palpable.
Whether you are religious or not, you value your life. You may see divine purpose at work, or believe you are progressing through stages on your way to ultimate peace, or you may postulate an existence that simply ends at some point and nothing remains, i.e. your awareness ceases. But if the latter is your point of view . . . that takes a great deal of imagination since (as I have often said, partly tongue-in-cheek) “I’ve been alive as long as I can remember.” I have nothing in my personal experience that is acquainted with non-existence.
All the world’s religions are predicated on life, and all non-religious persons celebrate life; life is our common denominator. Without life there is no conversation to be had.
Life is what scientists study, historians record, authors describe, and gurus illuminate. Without life existence is meaningless, i.e. existence doesn’t even exist.
Death is real, too, of course. Sometimes we worry about that (usually in private). But we obsess about life, don’t we?
Our diet plans, exercise regimens, safety products, medical procedures, and scientific research into prolonging life (ideally forever) are all designed to enhance or extend life. It goes without saying, but let’s say it anyway: living is what we are ALL about. From soaps (like Lifebuoy) to rescue helicopters (life flights) to magazines (Life magazine), etc. we are constantly engaged in living and celebrating life and avoiding its cessation.
Our survivor instinct is so strong. It’s why a drowning person will claw his or her way to the water’s surface, even using their would-be rescuer as an object to climb upon . . . just to get a breath of air. So great is our will to live (see the work of Arthur Schopenhauer) that we will often endure enormous suffering rather than give in to our demise.
And of course, why not? Life is an individual gift to each of us, its own raison d’être; it is the ultimate prize, the pathway to enjoyment, the means to finding fulfillment, the milieu in which we find meaning. Even in the midst of suffering.
And so our television programs and streaming services are laced with periodic ads for drugs, moisturizers, supplements and a multiplicity of products to preserve youth (or the appearance of it), extend longevity, ease suffering, and enhance enjoyment of . . . life.
We abhor the taking of a life (although self-preservation is sometimes our justification), and in our funerals and memorials we celebrate a life lived, even with persons who may not have been altogether easy to live with.
Consciousness is so absolutely alluring, and the absence of it is devastating beyond our ability to describe; in fact, I would say it is virtually incomprehensible.
Life is our rallying point. We say things like: “Life is precious; handle with care.” And we often emphasize its brevity, its tenuousness, its profundity, its bitterness, its meaningfulness. But life has seasons, does it not? Phases, periods, wildernesses that must be traversed, mountains that must be climbed.
Childhood is such a season; a time when you want to achieve the freedom to be your own person, make your own choices, live your own life (so to speak). Then young adulthood arrives faster than you imagined, and then your season changes into full adulthood, more responsibility, often a mate and children to provide for, etc. The years of career building ensue . . . and you seem to be in a vast desert of routine into which you must arrange for freedom once again while maintaining financial equilibrium. And before you know it . . . you are thrust into the final quarter of life, attendant with health concerns of your own, or of those you love.
Where once you envisioned your life as a time when you could “do for yourself” you are now depending on others (in increasing measure) to “do for you.” Can you learn to embrace this new phase of life? For it is every bit “life” just as surely as the time when you had drive, plans, energy, and “open skies” ahead of you.
And it is useful to ponder the famous quotation . . . “Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.” (Thank you, George Strait, I think)
But I think I’d go a good bit further. To be fair . . . life is made up of those delightful, unforgettable moments (for sure), but it’s mostly made up of what masquerades as the mundane, routine, ordinary, and even . . . boring moments. And these are countless, aren’t they? I say “masquerade” because when you are aware of them they take on a hue that is anything but boring. The ability to hear, see, feel, think, taste, etc. is awesome. Even as our abilities decline with aging or disease the profound sense of awareness can prevail.
We say, “life is what you make it.” And I understand the intent of that sentence. I’d say life is what it is; we can live in awareness of its beauty, profundity, and incomparable joy, but we can’t make it anything!
When death comes, when a final breath is exhaled . . . and we witness lifelessness in a person or animal, we are profoundly effected, because we are seeing something foreign to us, something outside our personal experience. Whether you possess faith in an afterlife or not . . . in that moment you are engaged with ultimacy, because until you breathe your own last breath . . . witnessing the passing of another’s life is as close as you will ever get to sensing the “trail pheromones” of life.
No wonder my uncle was so moved.
The Lost Story 