“Is there life before death? That is the question!”
— Anthony de Mello
My daughter May, who is 4, has worked out that people die. They stop existing, in one sense.
She loves talking about it. She never met her grandmas and so she has a lot of material to ponder. And, like all small children, she has no idea of “appropriateness”.
Which to me is awesome … I want her to be free and open about what she communicates and explores, just as I want her to be empathetic and understanding of what might be sensitive subjects for others. It’s a fascinating dance this being a parent, that’s for sure.
But I don’t think she really knows about death, it’s far too conceptual for her at the moment. For me, I found out about death and dying in my twenties. Living in a very active outdoors community meant people – young people, my age – wouldn’t come back from adventures.
Some of these missions were high in risk. My friends and acquaintances knew precisely what they were getting into and prepared for it as best they could. Others were taken off the game board seemingly so very randomly, through weird accidents, quirks of fate, through “no fault of their own”. They didn’t put themselves in any obvious harm’s way, and yet, still … harm found them.
It took me a while to understand that perhaps there wasn’t a place of safety in life. That life itself was hazardous, and random, and I could and should take care, but I’d better make the most of my time before I found myself out of time.
The greatest bringer of focus in life is death. The end really brings everything to a sharp point, doesn’t it?
Memento Mori: this is a Latin phrase that means, “Remember that you will die”. While we don’t know how much time we might have, we certainly tend to waste time like we’ll live forever.
If you knew how short life actually is, how would you live yours? No matter how uncertain or apprehensive you might be, what would you start doing? What would you stop compromising on? What would you stop waiting for?
Appreciating my mortality helps me appreciate my life. It helps me stop dilly-dallying and delaying, it helps me seriously reduce or even curb the unnecessary and the trivial. It means I do my best to make sure I enjoy every single step along the way.
It means my focus really becomes attuned to each and every moment. The small things become the big things. I take less for granted. “No ordinary moments” starts to be a reality … which is such a good thing.
Realising that there is an unavoidable end means an unhinged and unending chase for more is put well in perspective, isn’t it? And that’s the whole foundation to a good life: perspective. It’s not about giving up a chase for more, but building in the ultimate celebration of the one moment you have. This one.
So make the most of now, will you? Help me show my kids – all our kids – how to live supremely well.
Go well,
Arjuna