n the past few weeks, death has popped up at different points along the periphery of my life. A coach I know found out her client died suddenly, in his 40s. A member of my extended family is facing a potentially terminal diagnosis. And a colleague’s husband fell ill and died in a matter of weeks. But, in the midst of her grief, she asserted, “Do not say that he was taken too soon. He lived a full life.”
A full life.
I’m sitting with what that means. To live a full life. For me, there’s something about a robust flow of giving and receiving. Giving freely what is ours to give and opening to receive life in all its bounty. Embodying a profound "yes" to both the blessings and burdens (because they aren’t always so easily distinguishable anyway).
It also reminds me of an inspiring art installation.
In 2011 Artist Candy Chang was grieving the death of a loved one. She covered an abandoned house with chalkboard paint and wrote the following prompt:
Before I die I want to _______.
Any passerby could pick up a piece of chalk and share their aspirations. The next day, the wall was entirely full.
The first Before I Die wall in New Orleans in 2011.
Over the past dozen years, communities have created over 5,000 Before I Die walls in over 75 countries.
While the responses cover many themes— resolving rifts in relationships, making a difference, finding inner peace— the ones that stood out to me are about unfulfilled creative dreams.
In Die Empty, Todd Henry tells of the conversation that sparked the idea for the title of his book. A friend posed a strange question: "What is the most valuable land in the world?" He dismissed all guesses, and replied:
"The most valuable land in the world is the graveyard. In the graveyard are buried all the unwritten novels, never-launched businesses, unreconciled relationships, and all of the other things that people thought, 'I'll get around to that tomorrow.' One day, however, their tomorrows ran out."
We don’t like to think about our mortality. I know I don’t. It makes me feel squirmy and awkward. And yet, ancient wisdom from many traditions reaffirms that when we include our death in our awareness it actually makes us more alive. The stoics called it memento mori, Latin for remember death. We see it in traditions like the Japanese Obon festival or the Mexican celebration of Día de los Muertos.
Hundreds of lanterns set adrift as part of the Obon festival to honor the ancestors. (image source: Jordan McCaw)
Pixar's Coco vividly portrays Día de los Muertos.
As part of my coaching training with Third Space.wearethirdspace.org/, we did a memento mori exercise adapted from the Buddhist practice of the five remembrances.
A version of the five remembrances found in the late Thich Nhat Hanh's book Fear.
We stood in a line and took turns speaking the words to each other. Then we went outside for a walk in silence and I remember feeling so alive, like all my senses were fully switched on, and also deeply centered.
I felt a similar feeling this past week when I came across a meditative short story called "The Guest" in a fascinating book on systemic psychotherapy by Bert Hellinger called Love's Hidden Symmetry (sadly out of print).
I wanted to share a partly summarized version of the story below. (If you want to read it in its entirety I've scanned a copy here).
Are you ready for a story?
A stranger walked across lonely country. He grew thirsty and planned to stop at the farmhouse he spied on the horizon to ask for a drink. But when he got closer, he saw the farmer busy in the garden and he changed his mind, not wanting to disturb him. He simply waved and walked on.
What he didn't know was that the farmer ws also lonely and was hoping the stranger would stop and chat for a while. He had gone out into the garden to be visible to him. Too bad.
The stranger continued on, growing thirstier to the point that he determined he would approach the next farmer he saw even if it was a nuisance. This farmer was annoyed. "Just what I don't need when I have so much to do. I can't take care of anyone else right now." But when the stranger asked for a drink, the farmer couldn't refuse.
The stranger complimented the farmer on his garden. "It's clear that someone has worked here who understands gardening and loves plants." The farmer invited him to sit down. They talked for many hours and he invited the stranger to stay the night.
"As evening came they sat on the porch and watched the vastness of the western sky transfigured in the evening light. In the darkness, the stranger talked about how his world had changed when he had begun to feel that someone was accompanying him step by step. At first, he said, he had refused to believe that another was always there, and that when he stopped, the other stopped, and when he went on, the other went on as well. And it had taken a while before he understood who his companion was.
'My constant companion is my death,' he said. 'I have grown so accustomed to his presence that I would miss him now if he weren't there. He is my truest and best friend. When I don't know what's right or what to do, I stop a while and wait for his answer. I have abandoned myself to him, and I know he's there and I am here. Without hanging on to my own desires, I wait for his message to come to me. When I am centered and have courage, a word comes from him to me, and, like a lightening flash, illuminates the dark and I become clear.'
The farmer found this talk strange, and gazed silently into the night. After a long time, he saw his own death as his companion. And he bowed his head to him. And as he paid his respects to his own death, it was as if the rest of his life were changed. It became precious as the love that anticipates a parting, and like such love, filled to overflowing.
In the morning, they broke their fast together, and the farmer said, 'Even though you are leaving, my friend remains.' They went outside, shook hands, and said goodbye. The stranger went on his way and the farmer returned to his field"
What would life look like if we took our death as a constant companion?
How might it impact our commitment to our creative pursuits?
Do you have a creative project that’s been on the back burner for a while (perhaps decades even)? Why not stop waiting and just give it a go?
What would it take for you to die empty?
Postscript: In between drafting this yesterday and posting it now, incredibly, I found out that my uncle -- the one facing a potentially terminal diagnosis -- just passed away. We were not very close, but he was a beautiful soul. Deeply caring and charmingly carefree. His grounded, humble, inclusive and nonjudgemental presence made you feel instantly relaxed and welcome just as you are. He will be remembered for his wonderful sense of humor and that sparkle in his eye. Uncle Jere, you will be missed and your memory lives on.