Solstice Thoughts

On living till we're dead

Photo by Neven Krcmarek on Unsplash

As they days grow increasingly shorter, I’m thinking about how I want to live, before I’m dead.

This probably sounds dramatic, but hear me out—this thought process is eminently practical. And it’s how I’m currently locating contentment, inspiration, strength, and forgiveness in a time that is incredibly challenging for all of us.

I got this saying from volunteering for hospice, something I’ve been doing since last May. I do this work for entirely selfish reasons. I was promised—by a podcast, of course—that it would be life-changing, and it’s proven to be just that.

“You are alive until you are dead” is one of the fundamental premises of hospice. In other words, until the patient is dead, we treat them as if they were alive—with the dignity and care we’d give to any living person, rather than treating them as an object not long for this world.

But this phrase (“You are alive until you are dead”) has become my mantra. Say it with me — “You are alive until you are dead.” Think about those words. Meditate on them. For me, they float over my life like a neon sign. I am alive, for now. I will die. How would I want to spend my last moments?

Again, this might sound dramatic. It could sound like I’m planning to live a la Edna St. Vincent's “First Fig,”burning my candle at both ends by, I dunno—bungee jumping daily. We have a version of “bucket lists” sold to us by capitalism (so crafty, that capitalism!) that tells us that things like trips to Bali, or sky-diving, or Michelin starred restaurants perched atop the Andes that can only be reached by llama are the pinnacle of human existence. But what if they’re not?

In his book, The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can’t Stand Positive Thinking, Oliver Burkeman’s third section is about Momento Mori, a popular form of artistic meditation for centuries, which literally means “remember you must die.” Burkeman reminds us that meditations on death are a practice in both stoicism and Buddhism, neither of which are famous for extolling trips to luxury resorts. In other words, Burkeman reminds us that embracing one’s mortality isn’t about living extra, it’s about appreciating the life we have.

At the hospice facility, everyone has a single room with a bathroom, which includes a shower. And every time I’m there, I think about last showers. To have hot water piped directly to us is something our ancestors would have sold their souls for. And yet, we take the pleasure of showering for granted. I’m even annoyed by it, sometimes, when I’m in a hurry and I have to wash my hair because I just worked out and it takes so long.

But someday, we will take our last shower. And, like most last things, we won’t know it’s our last. We might be in a hurry. We might be thinking about work, or someone who annoyed us, or how life isn’t feeling up to scratch, at that particular moment. We might be resenting our bodies, rather than enjoying the kiss of the warm water or the rasp of the washcloth on our skin.

We won’t know it’s our last shower. That this was a precious experience we won’t have again, in this body we take for granted (or maybe even resent!), but that is a miracle, animated by forces our sciences still can’t understand or replicate.

I just read Wintering, a lovely book about recognizing and appreciating the season you are in and allowing yourself rest and recuperation. While reading it, I kept thinking about momento mori, and living with the knowledge of mortality. I believe it’s discussed directly in the book (I can’t check as I immediately leant the book out to a friend; it’s that sort of book). Winter is a time to slow down, to reassess, and to nurse any wounds that life has inflicted on you—the losses, big or small, inevitably accumulated over the year. It is also a season that embodies last things; that reminds us that decay is inevitable, and—most importantly—that this decay leads to renewal.

The winter solstice is another reminder that life is short, that it must be full of both light and dark, and that some periods will feel more dark than light. But it’s also a reminder that nothing is permanent, and that includes both joy and sorrow. Most importantly, however, it’s a reminder that we attach the meaning we give our lives. I think we’ve lost this trick, or we’ve let it be subsumed by corporations. We’re told that buying something or that living a certain way, with certain products, will finally crack that shell of loneliness or that feeling that life isn’t quite enough with which so many of us live in our weirdly connected, yet wildly unconnected lives.

But what if we are alive, until we are dead? What if we’re capable of living, if we just let ourselves? What if a shower is glorious, and so is joy, but so is sorrow? What if all of these things are opportunities to feel alive? We’re stardust that has been given the opportunity to eat nachos, and yet we think we need super-yachts to be happy.

So that’s my solstice solicitation for you. At some point today, think about the year you’ve had and the year that is coming. Don’t let the headlines provide the narrative—we don’t know what is going to happen. Instead, think about the life you’ve lived. Relish what was good. What worked out, and filled your cup. Take the time to grieve the shadow life you wish you’d led. Mourn that which you loved, that you gave yourself to with a full heart, and that proved false. Use all of these things to imagine the life you could lead, if you let yourself. Meanwhile, this is not an admonition to fall back on a dramatic bucket list! Instead, think about your triumphs and regrets, sure. But also think about what really rooted you. Think about where you found the quiet pleasures and the true connections that make life more than a daily grind.

This day is so very short, but they’ll get longer. What do you want to leave behind, on this darkest day? What do you want to carry into the new season?

Let’s take this opportunity, in this uncertain time, to live until we’re dead.

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