Where was I before I was born?
What happens when I die?
Will I be under the ground when I die?
When I’m in heaven, how I will I find you?
My four year old has always asked big, existential questions. Ever since he could talk, he has been concerned with the before and after questions of life. Tonight at dinner, he asked me if I would die before him. I told him I don’t know, but probably. And probably he would be a grown-up and I would be an old woman. He then moved on to being amazed that one day he would be an adult and not a kid.
Children seem much more in tune with these big questions of life, much closer somehow to the veil between this world and the next. They are so curious about mortality and aging while at the same time, having very little ability to imagine themselves beyond what they currently are.
At some point in life, we stop asking these questions. There’s too much mystery, too much at stake, too many what-ifs. I’d much rather not think about death, even though I have hope in a life to come. The idea of aging and losing my ability to experience and move about the world like I do now is frightening. The thought of leaving behind those I love is unbearable.
In 21st century, American culture, talking about death and dying is fairly taboo. We talk about it only when absolutely necessary, and even then we try to minimize it. I just finished the series finale of Firefly Lane (*big spoiler ahead. Scroll past the image if you want to skip this), a friendship drama about the multi-year friendship of two women from teenagers to middle-aged women (based on the novel by Kristin Hannah). It touches on a variety of life circumstances, including one of the characters’ cancer journey and, ultimately death. While she is dying, she is learning to accept her impending death, but her best friend, her husband, and her daughter are all trying to avoid it. They keep pushing more treatments, more studies, more herbal remedies, more positive thinking. But at a certain point, they all must face reality and find a way to navigate a final goodbye. As a result, this close-knit group of people are able to have some truly meaningful and even joyful experiences together before their beloved dies.
I have a hunch that being in a bit of denial about one’s mortality is key to short-term emotional survival, but is it the key to thriving? It seems that denying the reality of death, however far away it may be, may rob us of a rich, fulfilling life.
This paragraph from an article on the website The Art of Dying Well addresses this:
The fact is, an awareness of our mortality can lead us to behave differently in the present. In the Middle Ages, the Black Death claimed the lives of about a third of the entire population of Europe. As a result, the catchphrase ‘memento mori’ (remember death) became very well-known and deeply shaped the way people lived their lives.
Likewise, sometimes when people go through a near-death experience or recover from a life-threatening situation, they also discover a new lease on life and a shift in perspective that allows them to live more joyfully and more intentionally. This doesn’t always happen of course, but I’ve heard enough stories to know it to be true to life.
Those who lived through (are still surviving) the Covid-19 pandemic have similarly confronted death, either because we lost someone to the disease or we carry the trauma of the what-ifs of infecting someone else who could die or wondering if we or someone beloved would be next. And in the process, have shifted our priorities and rhythms of life. I know this was not everyone’s experience, but for the sake of my argument, I am specifically talking about people who were deeply impacted by the consequences of the pandemic in 2020 and 2021 in particular and have seen a change in how they live as a result.
My life may not look dramatically different to the outside observer, but I’ve made some changes as a result of the pandemic. Primarily related to how I’m investing my relationship energy, saying “no” to busyness as default, and prioritizing activities that bring me joy and peace in the midst of a chaotic and distressing world.
I have to admit, my child’s questions about death and dying make me uncomfortable. I don’t want to talk about it with him. I’d rather shield him from that harsh reality of what it means to be human. But it’s no use. Death is real. And so I answer his questions calmly and directly. And I admit when I don’t know or can’t know an answer. We need to be okay with ambiguity too.
And meanwhile, my soul is stirred to wrestle with my relationship to my own mortality. If I can find peace with the finite nature of life, perhaps I can live more fully in the present and extend my experience of a life well lived as long as possible.
The poem The Summer Day, from which one of Mary Oliver’s most famous quotes derives, is worth reading in full. I highlighted the last lines in bold for emphasis:
The Summer Day Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean– the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down– who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
I love how Oliver poses that last daring question right after contemplating the existence of a grasshopper and the nature of prayer as simply going about ordinary life. The question, on its own, sounds intimidating. As if the answer must be some grand plan, some extraordinary mark on the world. But Oliver already answered it. What better way to live your one wild and precious life than to stroll through a field, pay attention to the ordinary, and kneel in wonder.
Thanks for reading,
—NK
Going Deeper
How A Near Death Experience Could Change the Way You Live (NPR)
Accepting Your Mortality (The Art of Dying Well)
The Summer Day by Mary Oliver (1992). Includes a recording of Oliver reading the poem.
The closing lines of "The Summer Day" are in my head constantly. I can't say I always live them as well as it's possible to do (unless spending a lot of time doing chess puzzles online is literally the best way to spend my one wild and precious life), but it's a great reminder, and so beautifully written! Thanks for sharing; it's never a bad day for reading Mary Oliver!
I just read this to Grandma Jo and we wept a little bit together. Especially your closing lines. Poetic and moving. Thank you.