The Art of Dying
Dying is an art. Just not a popular one.
I know what you’re thinking: What’s to like about Death? I’ve attended tonnes of funerals over the years, and they were always terrible.
This is not the dying I’ve learned to cherish however; the dying I secretly adore. Death in the truest sense has nothing to do with sad frozen faces dressed in black.
It’s little to do with the physical act itself even. It’s not a story, an event, or even a tangible experience of any kind. It’s more the absence of it – the opposite of a funeral or any other such occasion in fact.
Life is meaningless. It is so meaningless, apparently, that we insist on constantly making stories about it. It’s rather impossible to get up in the morning otherwise, is it not?
And that’s fine. Stories - usually in the form of self-inquiry or new, interesting questions – put breathe into the lungs. They build our personalities, extend our social, creative and emotional abilities, and provoke valuable experiences impossible to foster otherwise.
But what’s to be said for the disappearance of such things? What remains of you once the ideas, the dreams, and the self-identities are gone? Can we visit such a place? And what’s it like to at least dip your toes in every once in a while?
Death is the greatest dream there is: infinite space, deep curiosity, and an open awareness of the self. It doesn’t get any better than that does it...
But here’s the trick. Death, much like life, also ends. It doesn’t wish to hook you in. It’s not sticky or consuming like quick sand. It arrives and disappears sometimes like a blinking streetlight. Then the next adventure starts – you’ve arrived inside a new identity, or with some wonderful reason to exist.
Death lets go of you once more, and waves you away lovingly with gracious hands.
Life, on the flip side, is a real motherf***er. It doesn’t give up so easily. Once it becomes you, you’re keenly locked in. Other lives gather round you for support. You all compliment one another, find fancy names for your stories (names like McDonalds, or Communism, or France) and keep on living.
The illusion lasts: that you are such and such a thing and so will always remain.
Death is subtle, after all, like I said. She’s sweet and gentle. Too sincere to detonate your dreams all at once. She just watches and smiles to herself from afar.
And so that thing called you, and your life, keeps going. There are dog people. Chocolate lovers. Wine connoisseurs. Football fans. Vegans. Chimney sweeps. Furniture makers.
So let me ask the question: were you really made to be so wonderfully, shamelessly, exactly who you are? Or are you simply just a little too afraid to take off your clothes?
Death’s okay with you either way. You’ll be visiting her one day regardless. But she sure would enjoy to see you naked...
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