How death grants us a reminder to live, grow and explore.
Death grants us growth and reflection
The last time I saw my grandfather, he was sitting on a couch smiling at me almost helplessly. I kissed him on the cheek and gently acknowledged him with both affection and respect. That was only a few years ago. Now, I can only think about how that person he once was, is no longer. He was just gone, gone forever. It's strange really, how time works in relation to the last time you see someone. How time just passes by and we irrevocably move forward without an idea of the passing moment
After having many conversations with a friend about death, it really reiterated to me how death grants us the opportunity to reflect on our lives. One of my closest friends, Fiona, we talk about death non-stop — over lunch, dinner, even at work when there are no customers around (actually even around customers, if it’s not too dreary for them). We just happened to connect over it and we laugh about the absurdity of it all. Fiona being double my age, meant that she had more insight. She laments about how sad it was when people die because that opportunity to speak to them or resolve things with them ends and never again do we have the chance - which was a tragedy in itself. It puzzled us too about the contradictions of celebrating death itself, why do wait for the end of things to be recognized and celebrated? The irony being, why couldn’t it have been like this when they were alive? This celebration was just seemingly ill-timed, we thought. Fiona also wondered too, if it would matter if people were present at your funeral? As you wouldn’t know. It’s quite comical, the irony of death and funerals, but it really does demonstrate that we do our best to honor our loved ones.
I feel we are at our best at funerals, innocent and full of sorrow. No one knows how to react and in such a state of bereavement, we are all like children, helpless. Standing beside me at her father’s funeral, Auntie Thủy remarked a similar sentiment about the tragedy of circumstances realized upon death. Like Fiona, she thought of how sad it was, that as a family, this was the first time we were nearly altogether. I had never seen such sorrow on a face. It was so defeating and it occurred to me that I had never ever really hugged her and that moment felt like the most suitable time. I feel like we should hug every single member of our family and even the extended ones. It’s the little things like that, that cements relationships. I even feel that the breakdown of the family could be helped if we all just touched each other more and talked to each other — even just looking each other in the eye. There’s all this intimacy we miss out on with the people we are meant to love and those who love us. How else are we supposed to invite people in? It only seems after a life-changing experience, we are reminded of the importance of the small things. Though aren’t the small things really just the big things too? Isn’t everything in relation to one another? There is no big or small, it just is.
Death is followed by a celebration of life
Death seems to serve as a catalyst, to remind us of the gift of life, to even give life meaning. For death is when we recognize the life that was lived. This is why funerals provide us with an appropriate time to really come to terms with death and loss. If there was one thing I learned about funerals, it was that funeral processions are strange arrangements. My grandfather’s procession was not as usual as I expected. In fact, it barely felt like a funeral, it was more like a celebration of life. The funeral presiding reiterated life over death, which I found to be beautiful but peculiar. It was not the typical funeral of lowering someone down, saying a few prayers, and having that send off all within a mere few hours. I think by the time of the third day of the funeral (yes it was held over three days) it became a casual affair. I may sound like I am making light of things but really it was so much different from the funeral of my paternal grandfather, where we wore all black and suits. It was a Catholic funeral and it was held at a church and on the same day, we buried him. This time around, I wore a suit too with a white headband but instead of a priest, a Buddhist monk spoke to us. He was reminding us of the cycle of life and death and the way of things. I drifted at this point only because I thought of the way in which we take words at this stage of grief. Every single word said in such delivery meant so much to us, but it was difficult to register. Perhaps because it was in my second language and whatever I did understand, I did not necessarily agree with. Like the priest, the monk had this authoritative presence and was equally commandeering in his speech. At this point, I felt like the monk liked to hear himself talk.
However, I found that funerals gave grief a bit of needed order but somehow, I found myself at odds with the dominion in which tradition dictated how we go about a process like grief. Not so much that it was Buddhist, rather the idea that beliefs played such a crucial role in the way in which our lives became centered on propagating a way to live almost in service to the idea. I knew that my grandfather was Buddhist and is the rest of my mother’s side, so who am I to say that the funeral should be catered to my beliefs or rather lack of, though I regard myself as spiritual. Having said that, I wondered what my funeral would be like. I really hope my funeral focuses on engagement with the mourners like it was a birthday party, I want all my loved ones to get to know one another and share memories. I would want them to bring life into those memories so that someday they would be easier to remember in time. For there is no better way to know someone than to hear their stories.
As the monk spoke, I found myself wandering aimlessly in my own thoughts but somehow still aware of my environment. I really did appreciate his talk on impermanence. It resonated deeply with what I was envisioning in my mind — the thought of things as impermanent. It was like things were never really there and as if we were never really here. The moment had already passed and all that we know is already gone. By that point, Buddhism became a recurring theme in the wake of my Grandpa’s death, especially in between the years I last saw my Grandpa to when I attended his funeral. I like the idea of Buddhism being grounded in philosophy, I find that there is an important link between religion, philosophy, science, and spirituality. I find they all relate and pertain to the greater questions in our quest to find our place in this world. I found it comforting to think about this in the midst of the funeral. I came to really appreciate Buddha’s teaching, especially in the reminder of the impermanence of things. He really did articulate that aspect of life so well. While I hold reservations about fully embracing ideas, I can see that someone like Buddha did try to see the full picture in the grander scheme of things. This for me was reassuring and comforting knowing that those before us many millennia ago faced the same dilemmas.
Death is only temporary
Life is temporary and so are moments. Even memories that we attach to people, places, and things. Attachment in the form of material attachment especially is an interesting concept in light of the way in which Buddhist practice their lives. This relationship did not seem to provide all of the answers. It’s easy for Buddhist monks to renounce material and people when they have isolated themselves. But how do we, as those born into a world with family and love decidedly abandon those who we are meant to take care of? Buddha was wise and easily commendable but he would not have made father or husband of the year, though I’m sure with his fervor he was doing more good by spreading his profound teachings. But still, it seems too easy to abstain from the material world. It’s somewhat contradictory or so, I thought to myself. With the way in which we as material beings need the material world to continue to exist. Though at this point in this sermon, it gave me comfort in a sense, with this reminder of death, that someday we will all meet the same fate. Each and every one of us has to face this revelation. That all that we are, in all its forms will decay and fade away. It still frightens me the whole decaying process. I don’t want to die and I know I cannot live forever. It really is quite defeating. It’s no wonder they cover us in burials, not only is it respectful but it saves us from the reminder of the most frightening aspects of living, that we die and dissipate with time, every fragment of us.
I recall now a conversation with my friend, Thành, he always felt uneasy every time I talked about death. I was not only curious but furious as to why he never thought of it. The reason being was that it scared him. I thought to myself that if there were anyone more scared of death, it was me. I think about it every waking second, from crossing traffic to that all too close thunderstorm, the swerve driver on the road, erratic palpitations relating to stress or induced from a mad man on the train. Thinking about death is so normal and necessary, it’s embedded in us as humans for survival. Yet now that we feel invincible, are we less inclined to think about the implications that we may just be easily wasted away? I can say I was for the most part incensed Thành would not share with me his thoughts on death because sharing our thoughts on death is the closest thing we can do. Telling another person our thoughts on our place in the universe means the world to us. I guess it reminded me that the difference between closeness resided in the fact of sharing and even in the intimateness of looking into someone’s eyes or as Fiona would jokingly say, seeing them naked. It makes a world of difference to be intimate with someone. It is equally frustrating that people could go by life without reflecting on death just because it scared them. It also means that they harbor fewer thoughts about life itself. They are just living and perhaps that could be the best way to get the most out of things if we happen to spend too much time dwelling. The very act though is limiting in itself, to go by life without any thought of what it means. I bet Albert Camus would roll in his grave if we all went by life without the thought of it all. Yes! Somehow in a strange sensation of injustice, that supposed soul of his would reanimate and haunt everyone who did not even attempt to confer meaning towards their lives. He was right that life was absurd and never intended to have meaning but that does not mean we cannot give purpose to it or live life with meaning. It only requires forethought, without it, we may as well deny ourselves the marvelous and miraculous gift of rumination.
The death of things gives us the gift of life
I thought more about how death allows us to be reminded of the limited time we have. I suppose it is reasonable to say that death reminds us of the absence of time no longer available to us. Thoughts of past, present, and future fades with every present moment and the present moment is already fading. After my grandfather’s death, I wondered more about the importance of living in the present moment, though I find we need to see the past, present, and future as equals, that is, we need a relative perspective of it all. For even the present moment cannot be reflected on without remembrance of what has unfolded and what will come to happen. The concept of time does bring about uneasiness for such reasons, there is anxiety having to reflect on the past for we cannot change what happened. Then we get even more anxious in the present moment for we have to plan the future so that our needs are met. But we cannot escape this, if we could see time as a relative concept then perhaps we can find solace in our actions and in our thoughts that concern themselves with the improvement of the past so that way once it happens we can live with the knowledge that we have tried our best.
Though all too often, things pass without us even realizing it. But reminders of the past come rushing back to us through triggers, just like a death, providing us with moments where we can reflect. In death, my grandfather’s life gave way for me to understand the life in which I myself had led. If it weren’t for my grandfather’s death, I would not have gone to know what I know now and let alone, go on to write what I have now and everything else that follows. I even wonder if I would have come to be a writer without his passing, as the exploration of this period was the very first piece I wrote after his death and I have not looked back since.
Like any death, my grandfather’s death is cause for sorrow, and regret. But thankfully, with it came a gift of renewal and of remembrance. It imparted me with important lessons that allowed me to be who I’ve come to be. But more importantly, it gave me insights into how we should approach life, such as how we should tell our stories best we can. Someday we will go and no one will ever know who we were or how we felt. After all, who we were is no longer us when we’re gone. I wondered more about the importance of sharing before we all had to say goodbye to others and of this life. Sometimes we do not even get the chance to say goodbye. So, with my writing, I was given the opportunity to express all I could before my time ends.
With my grandfather’s death, came another remembrance of life, allowing me to feel more alive than ever. Even with sorrow, I was with joy knowing I had lived my share of a lifetime. Though, in this lifetime, I knew that no matter how much I loved people and things, someday it will all fade away. What I learned most was how time defeats us in many ways and what I also learned was things unsaid will forever haunt you. And then I realized things said, end too. But it is better to have done than not done at all, the experience of it all means too much. So, I say to this moment in time, for the love of the people I have — in life and in death, I say thank you and I love you all, even when you fade away. For what do I do but to keep loving you and thanking you, all of you, at least until the very day I could no longer anyway? I say to myself that though you fade away, it’s very much okay. We’ve had our time and with it stays a loving concoction of time and place. Once there, always there, ever there, right to the very end.
