My father lived out the modern American dream: complete and utter devotion to self, pursuing all his own dreams and desires, satisfying all his cravings and lusts. And he was miserable. He made everyone else miserable too. He wasn't an evil man, in fact he was very charming, fascinating, and intelligent, and I wonder what he might have done had he used his gifts for the benefit of others rather than spending his entire life circling the drain of his own ego. He died recently, giving me a painful glimpse into the bankrupt tale that was his legacy: a grim reminder that each of us has our own tale, and that ours too might come to naught if we live only for our own advancement or amusement.
Our culture doesn't like death, doesn't like to think about it, prepare for it, or even let its shadow touch our lives. But it is as natural as birth and breathing, we mortal creatures cannot escape its shadow, except by going through it. We like to think that science or medicine or technology will allow us to escape that grim specter somehow, or we amuse ourselves with thoughts of immortality on this earth, escaping into fantasies like Highlander or the recent infatuation with zombies, vampires, and werewolves or we imagine Heaven as some sort of hippy paradise, the ultimate commune, wherein life just continues on as ever it has. We write sanitized, 'happy' obituaries, leaving out the cause of decease and any negative or disappointing facts pertaining to the dead, for undoubtedly the person was perfect and wonderful and a veritable saint and now dwells contentedly in that impeccable commune in the sky.
Yet we demand 'authenticity' in everything else, even our food must be 'pure' and 'natural' and 'simple.' But death, that great enemy of all we know and love, is something to be ignored, avoided, or swathed in benign euphemisms. But it isn't pretty, nor is it going away. Life is messy, so why do we pretend that death isn't? I am not saying we should fear it, nor that we routinely speak ill of the dead, but this pretending that death is somehow pleasant or avoidable or simply an inconvenience or that it rights all wrongs and makes all sinners saints, is ridiculous. Rather let us address it as it is, prepare for it, live in anticipation of one day having to endure it. We study for tests, we dress according to the weather, we plan for a baby or a wedding, we have insurance for various 'what ifs,' we save for retirement or a house, we strive to lose weight or get in shape for a marathon, so why is this any different?
It is something of the 'final exam,' after all. We don't write up nice little summations of someone's excuses for not studying for a test and call everything good, rather they must live with the consequences of their actions and either retake the course or drop out of it entirely. It is the same with death: we must face the consequences of our actions, no matter how nicely our survivors word the obituary, it will have no impact on our own reality. Every story will end, we have no say in the matter once we come to the final page, but we still have a chance to change things, we need not fear that grim specter when it comes, rather we can close the book with a wistful tear and at last meet the Author and discover what 'happily ever after,' really means.
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