Chapter Thirty-Seven. The Brevity of Life
In the ancient Indian epic poem the Mahabharata (sometimes described as the longest poem ever written), the wise king is asked, “What is the most wondrous thing in the universe?” His reply is unexpected, especially to our western ears. The king says, “The most wondrous thing in the universe is that all around us people are dying and we don’t believe it will happen to us.” We disbelieve death because we are afraid. So we find ways to tune out the reality of limited time. Mostly, we get on with the task of living our day-to-day lives. And the distraction works, until the cracks appear. Like when James told me that he was going to die. I didn’t know what to say. He appeared so healthy. With a weary voice he said, “I’m not worried about myself; I’ve lived a good life. I just can’t stop thinking about my wife and three girls.”
The Weight of Time
Over the following days and weeks, I was flooded with sadness as I thought about James and his family. In the deluge, I began to consider how much I take for granted. I realized how ungrateful I am for simple things like good health and the gift of time. James’s condition made me reflect on my own. He and I lead parallel lives. We are the same age, do the same type of work, and both have three young daughters. Like looking into a mirror, James’s situation forced me to face the frailty and brevity of life in an uncomfortable way. Each time he said, “Time is short; use it well,” the message went deep.
The fissures start small, like little crow’s-feet around the eyes or like the hairline fractures you see on a Renaissance painting when you look up close. The cracks and crow’s-feet reveal something that we didn’t first realize was there. Suddenly we see it, and the thin veneer that separates life from death becomes clear. The veneer’s patina quietly reminds us that the passage of time is real. I think that’s what makes old paintings, antique photographs, and old age such beautiful things. They help us settle our differences with death. When we behold the blemishes and cracks, we begin to reconcile with the reality that one day we will follow the same path. The wrinkles of time will increase. But seeing and studying such things helps us be authentic and true. And truth is always more beautiful than a lie.
Still, it’s hard to believe that we are all going to die. At the same time, it’s impossible to ignore. Facing the fact of death is something that we desperately need to do. It’s good for the soul. And settling our differences with death can give us new eyes. Facing death clarifies life. At least that is the premise of my favorite ghost story of all time. Like most ghost stories, this one begins on a cold night in a bleak and decrepit house.
THE YEARS TEACH MUCH WHICH THE DAYS NEVER KNOW.
— RALPH WALDO EMERSON
The Visitation
The house creaks as a bitter old man settles in for the night. Suddenly, he is awakened by a familiar face. He squints and realizes that it’s a ghost! This apparition moans and bellows, warning of three more otherworldly visitors to come. As the ghost vanishes the old man disregards it as his imagination gone awry, the result of an undigested piece of meat. But then, as foretold, another ghost appears. There is no doubt that this one is real. The ghost is well dressed and seems kind, and he takes the old man on a journey into the past. The old man views scenes from his childhood as if they were happening again. He reminisces in a warm yet sad way. His heart softens. He doesn’t want to leave these memories, but they vanish and the ghost disappears. Unsettled, the old man falls back asleep.
Suddenly, another apparition appears. He is jovial but unsparing with the truth. The ghost shows the old man the present-day lives of people that he knows. Like looking at his life from the top of a ladder, this bird’s eye view is difficult to digest. The old man winces to hear how he is belittled and scorned. The mockery and laughter at his expense hurts. Before he can make sense of the pain, the ghost takes him to see the suffering of those he previously ignored. Anguish and regret fill his heart. But the ghost disappears before anything can be done. The man collapses back into bed.
A Broken Heart
Moments later he is awakened by the sight of a foreboding figure wearing a black hood. The old man shivers in fright. This spirit is dark and silent. The ghost shows the old man the future, beginning with the death of his employee’s son and concluding with the old man’s grave. The old man trembles and breaks down, and the ghost vanishes into the night. In utter exhaustion, the old man falls asleep on his floor.
The next morning, the sun shines bright and the old man awakens to a new life. His face glows with the gratitude of having been given a second chance. As if reborn, the man is changed. He proclaims, “I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach!” And he is true to his word. The once selfish, cold, and cruel Ebenezer Scrooge becomes the epitome of generosity, love, and warmth. The first and second ghosts opened his mind and thawed his heart. The last one broke it in two. That’s what death does. It illuminates life like nothing else can.
TO KNOW HOW TO GROW OLD IS THE MASTERWORK OF WISDOM, AND ONE OF THE MOST DIFFICULT CHAPTERS IN THE GREAT ART OF LIVING.
—HERMAN MELVILLE
The Old and Wise King
This isn’t only true for characters in a classic Charles Dickens tale. It’s true for all of us who are open to learn from the brevity of it all. Like those of us who are friends with James, we cannot go on living the same way. Life and our relationship to time have now changed. And perhaps one of the best ways to honor his life is to live with him in mind and to choose the more noble path. With this in mind, I picked up an old book I hadn’t read for years. I was searching for wisdom and happened upon the writings of an ancient king who had a lot to say.
The old king wrote as one looking back on a full life. He wrote about vanity, labor, and love. And he especially liked to write about time: “There is a time to live and a time to die... a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.” As I read deeper, it soon became clear that much of the narrative hinged on the theme of the brevity of time. So I flipped through the pages searching for the king’s advice on how to live. I found shelter in his guiding words: “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.” Here was a mentor who understood the fight. The art of living a meaningful life requires mustering up and using every ounce of strength that we have. Might is a great way to live. Might is the perfect word. It implies urgency, effort, and force.
Pain and Joy
When the poet Mary Oliver was diagnosed with cancer she said, “You could live a hundred years, it’s happened. Or not. I am speaking from the fortunate platform of many years, none of which, I think, I ever wasted. Do you need a prod? Do you need a little darkness to get you going? Let me be urgent as a knife, then, and remind you of Keats, so single of purpose and thinking, for a while, he had a lifetime.” Born in 1795, John Keats died when he was 25. Three of his poems are considered to be among the finest in the world. He wrote with such vitality, yet he had no idea. None of us do. We imagine a lifetime, but there is no guarantee.
Death may be inescapable, but we don’t have to casually shake its hand. I’ve always been curious why certain people—like cancer survivors, kings, and poets—understand this so well. Maybe it’s because they have paused long enough to let the reality sink in, and then they did something with their grief. In reflecting on the imminent death of his father, the poet Dylan Thomas wrote, “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage. Rage against the dying of the light.” These are wise words that I have taken to be a mantra for my own life. I invite you to consider doing the same. The fight to pursue life even as death looms large benefits from a little rage.
Death is inevitable, but we don’t have to passively allow it to ruin our lives. We can choose how to respond. Fight, might, and rage are perfectly good responses, and so is joy. As one terminally ill patient said, “Part of the pain then is the joy now.” Whatever strategy you choose, stop procrastinating and squandering time. It’s your turn to live, and now is better than next week. Now is the time for joy. Now is the time to cherish the moments that remain. Now is the time to seize the day. Now is the time to honor those who have passed. Now is the time to live the life for which you were designed. Now is the time to stop worrying, complaining, and holding yourself back. Now is the time to pursue the forgotten dream. You can never change the cards you are dealt, but you can decide how to play the hand.
Exercise
STEP 1
Do an online search for “Dylan Thomas reads Do not go gentle into that good night.” Click the link and press play. Then close your eyes and listen. After listening, open your journal and record your thoughts. Then create something that reflects the sentiment of how you feel. Whether a drawing, photograph, song, or poem, make something with the thread of these ideas.
STEP 2
The brevity of life is a teacher that you don’t want to ignore. So take a walk in a nearby cemetery this week. Walk in silence and let the end of life be a light that guides how you pursue your dreams.
STEP 3
Ben Franklin once said, “Some people die at 25 and aren’t buried until 75.” Don’t let that be you. Seize the day. Honor the gift of life by going out and doing something that invigorates your soul. Don’t wait until tomorrow. Do it today.
