Some days I sit down to write and I have no idea where the next sentence will come from…actually, most days are like that. Usually I begin with a picture or a series of pictures that strike me for some unknown, indescribable reason, then I let the sentences go from there. Maybe there’s an emotion bubbling behind the photos, or maybe I start to hear under the coursing of my blood a story that I didn’t know needed to be told. Sometimes what comes out is funny; many times, it’s somber and even sad; and usually, almost always, it has to do with time and loss, the way that our mortal coil is perpetually unwinding despite our grand and glorious attempts to convince ourselves otherwise.
There is a passage in Peter Matthiessen’s The Snow Leopard where Matthiessen, reminiscing about his recently deceased wife while trekking in Nepal, remembers the moment when he realized she was dying. After sitting a silent retreat, he had come home to his wife, with whom he had an emotionally volatile, on again, off again relationship. Seeing his wife looking thin, pale, yet pretty in a new dress, Matthiessen had a moment of clarity in which he realized a prognosis that doctors would make months later: riddled with cancer, his wife was dying.
I’ve always remembered this moment in The Snow Leopard because I too have seen this “look” that Matthiessen describes. Although I’ve never foreseen an actual terminal diagnosis, occasionally when I walk through town and see passersby, the startling thought appears, “All these people are dying.” Looking in a child’s eye, I imagine the old woman she will inevitably become; looking at a flower in the bud, I envision that flower gone to seed, then denuded, then dead. And even when I look at myself in the mirror, which for some reason I’ve been doing frequently these days, I see not the face of a 35-year-old woman looking back at me but a sort of death mask: pay attention, girl, because the show passes this way only briefly.
This fascination with mortality is, of course, odd: it’s not something I share with family and friends. And yet how telling is this simple fact that we deem “odd” the realization that “all things shall pass” whereas we deem “normal” the delusion that that our lives, possessions, and the status quo will continue smoothly without change or end. Who exactly in this scenario is odd? Even so, I learned at a very young age not to tell my classmates what I was thinking as I sat alone at the top of my school’s jungle gym watching those other children playing: given that life is short, why doesn’t everyone try to figure out the meaning behind it all?
My infinitely weird childhood notwithstanding, I’ll go so far as to admit that I’ve seen “the look of death” in even inanimate objects: looking at seemingly stable, solid, permanent structures like buildings, roads, or trees, I sometimes see with visceral clarity the fact that they too are passing away. Sometimes when I snap photos, it is this realization that drives the shutter: “Someday when all this has passed, people will wonder what our houses looked like.” And so as I look at the stable, solid edges of tangible things, I see them as phenomena that are themselves perpetually and eternally in flux, their subatomic particles outpacing even the coursing of my blood or the lightning volatility of my thoughts. Foliage passes with every year, the sun passes with each day and cloudburst, and yet we foolishly think that our buildings and belongings will endure. “Do not store up for yourself treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal,” St. Matthew exhorts, “But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal.” If I knew the way to Heaven’s Warehouse, surely I’d store my meager treasures there; not knowing the way, though, I’ll hoard my cherished things here in the present, right here, in this heart that still beats between lungs that still breathe. For where your heart is, there your treasure will be also.
Aug 10, 2004 at 3:45 pm
Lorianne, I’ve never forgotten that section of “The Snow Leopard” either (or the part where he brings her the bowl). If it’s any consolation, I’ve thought about mortality all my life too, and knew I was way weird for doing so and had better keep quiet about it in general – at least until I met up with this blogging community! I think those of us who spent a lot of time out in nature as young, contemplative, curious, overly sensitive children were exposed early to those questions of birth, growth, decay and death and started thinking about them as inescapable reality. I’m not sorry, although I’ve often wished, albeit with fingers crossed, to be more like “other people”. It’s OK, this path is a good place to be, especially with companions like you.
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Aug 10, 2004 at 5:32 pm
You’re also, by the way and maybe not so incidentally, storing them in our hearts. Moths and rust here, too, of course.
I too have had that experience since a very young age — seeing everyone and everything wearing their deaths.
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Aug 10, 2004 at 10:58 pm
I never managed to get through The Tibetan Book of the Dead, but from what I read it seems that spending your life aware you may die at any moment and preparing for it must be a pretty normal way of life to Tibetans, at least for the monks.
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Aug 11, 2004 at 3:16 am
Sometimes I wonder how many other people have these thoughts and dare not speak about them just like us, at least not until they’ve found like-minded ones and see they are not out of their mind for being aware of the mortality of all. Not even just of ‘things’ or ‘all that is alive’, but also of situations, emotions, etc. It goes far.
In a Dutch magazine I once read an article about the current ‘fun’ mentality. It seems like life must be fun at all times, and death (of things, humans, situations, emotions) is not part of the fun. Thus we believe we shouldn’t speak about it, and silence our own thoughts about it.
But this makes death only more mysterious, and alien, thus frightening.
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Aug 11, 2004 at 11:10 am
Me too, me too, me too.
Sometimes I get on the subway, and I am weighed down with an inconsolable sorrow, and I actually think the thought, “These people are all dying. How can that be. In fifty years, almost all these people will be corpses and memories.”
The effect gets heightened if I happen to be listenind to hypnotic music (Philip Glass, or the Amelie Poulain soundtrack, or Radiohead). But, afterwards, after that moment of sadness, I feel elated, free, liberated by the inconsequentiality of the whole passing fancy.
It’s so nice to find like-minded folks!
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Aug 11, 2004 at 1:05 pm
floating forward
Lorianne has a wonderful post about death in her blog today. She writes, Looking in a child’s eye, I imagine the old woman she will inevitably become; looking at a flower in the bud, I envision that flower gone
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Aug 11, 2004 at 1:45 pm
I think I am motivated to write because “all things shall pass;” dammit, I want to preserve what of them I can, that little which words will hold.
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Aug 11, 2004 at 1:53 pm
This entire post, and the comments,
reminded me of one of my favorite poems:
My son, my executioner,
I take you in my arms,
Quiet and small and just astir,
And whom my body warms.
Sweet death, small son,
Our instrument of immortality,
Your cries and hungers document
Our bodily decay.
We twenty-five and twenty-two
Who seemed to live forever,
Observe enduring life in you
And start to die together.
by Donald Hall, 1955
I remember when I first read this poem in some long-ago-forgotten literature class, how it felt as if someone had finally seen what was in my head, and how freeing it felt.
It feels good to hear you say it out loud, too.
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Aug 13, 2004 at 5:34 pm
Wow, so many people sharing the same “odd” outlook…I guess there are more “weird kids” out there than I ever knew! Part of me thinks, gosh, I wish we all could have gone to school together: then we wouldn’t have grown up feeling alone & freakish! But then again, I think the experience of facing one’s aloneness & *surviving* it is hugely beneficial, for even if you’re surrounded by like-minded people, ultimately we each face our own mortality alone.
But in the meantime, it’s very heartening to know that others are mindful that the passing show is merely temporary. ntexas, I love that poem you quoted, especially the first line. And Dale, I love the notion of storing our treasures in one another’s hearts: talk about “sharing the wealth”!
Thanks, everyone, for the words of assent.
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