examining absence: what i've learned so far

I was feeling sad today. I thought maybe all the feelings of gratitude from Thanksgiving left me with a hangover, the way filling yourself with alcohol leaves you dehydrated, and disappointed with the reality you wake up to. But maybe it wasn’t that. One year ago today, I was supposed to meet a friend for coffee. Just as I was about to leave the house, he texted: “I’m sorry to cancel last minute but I’m feeling terrible.” He died that night from a heart attack. He was 39. And I miss him.

Most people close to me, or who follow my posts, know that 2016 brought a series of lessons in loss. It felt like a coming of age film in fast forward. 2017 seems to be continuing the trilogy. What might be an even more painful truth than having a loved one die, is experiencing that life goes on without them. I am still having trouble making sense of the world without the people who made it make sense, if that makes sense. It feels as if it goes against hope, against love, against time itself. When a person is an intimate part of your experience of life, no matter how much or little time you actually spent with them, their absence is not an end to your journey together. Their absence is a blank canvas for you to paint all your longings, regrets, secrets, and wishes. And like any work of art worth a damn, it’s fucking painful to create.  

It’s easy to walk through life thinking you will have another chance. In rare cases, we may have that opportunity. In even rarer cases, we may actually take it. But when people around you die, it puts all of those excuses on trial. All the, “Yeah, we should get together sometimes,” and the, “I’m sorry, things have just been so crazys.” I am as guilty as anyone. My phone is a graveyard of good intentions. Text messages lingering awkwardly by the snack table. Looking back, there are so many situations I would do-over in a heartbeat. But it begs the question, for whom?

If the person is no longer here, but I knew I had been kind, or gone out of my way to spend time, what difference would it make? Surely no difference to them, wherever they are, if anywhere at all. So then, is it really about them, or is it about me? Maybe regret is just a way to make sense of the crater our loved ones left behind, and how gravity isn’t the same without them. It’s an alluring idea, that we may have found relief in a parallel universe where we’d called back, or said I love you one last time. But more likely it’s that the pain is all too much. My heart crumbles in the vacuum of their absence, and my regrets eventually dissolve with the realization that it’s supposed to hurt, and the hurt is how much I love them.

This circuitous route to self-acceptance is one I travel often, and I don’t always reach the finish line. Forgiveness can be a wild beast. I have spent days replaying an exchange with my dad, as if through some loophole of modern physics I could change history with my mind. That by rejecting myself, I can somehow even the score.

I may not be able to change history, but I can change how history changes me. Does it make me kinder and more accepting? Or does it make me closed and more judgmental? It’s a fight. Perhaps one of the few worth putting it all on the line for. One of the few where surrendering isn’t defeat.   

One thing I can say about my journey so far is that I am definitely more affected. I don’t know if that’s the right word for it. I mean I am more easily moved. The same way someone who has never skied can’t appreciate a bluebird day, someone who hasn’t experienced loss can’t truly understand the space it occupies in your heart. I cry more. I hurt more. I laugh more, at least the real, deep, belly ones. I am more comfortable in the pain, and I roll up my sleeves instead of running away. I’ve lost the innocence that accompanies endless summers and bottomless sodas. I know now that everything comes to an end, and too much of anything is probably bad for you. With one exception: the ability to love and have compassion for this curious journey called being human.

life, after death

I am not so arrogant as to think the universe has singled me out to teach me a lesson, but there are times when the plot twists are so perplexing that it would be arrogant not to search for one. In the last two months, four people close to me have left the world as I know it. Until now, I had been mostly fortunate to have avoided the harsh realities of mortality, but as the saying goes, when it rains, it dumps an ocean on your unsuspecting ass. I feel as if my very foundation has been swept away, flooded with new possibilities of finiteness, loss, compassion, regret. Stories in the news of someone dying are no longer abstract. The connection with someone who has also lost a parent is palpable, a calling card of uninvited, unrelenting wisdom. Petty concerns are infuriating, confusing, and altogether the perfect distraction when the pain and uncertainty is just too much. My reality is both more empty and more full. A paradox of better understanding the nature of the universe and coming to terms with the fact that it makes no sense. 

I think most of us are born with, or adopt or are taught, the delusion of permanence. Our parents will always be there — we have to believe this because if not, we will die. Even if that’s not entirely true, it’s how we feel. They are the source of life, of security, of happiness, and coming to terms with their human-ness is hard enough, not to mention their mortality. I always knew intellectually that losing a parent was a rite of passage of sorts, something impossible to truly understand until it happens. The loss of a friend, particularly someone who showed no signs of sickness or even weakness, someone who loved life and loved his friends, is another puzzle that can only be solved once the pieces are in front of you, if at all. Even the passing of someone who fought in wars decades before you were born is a shock, because somehow once someone has lived to the ripe old age of 96, they appear eternal. I suppose it feels as if we will all live forever, until we don’t. Death is something impossible to grok until you face it, and by then it’s too late. And those of us who are left to witness the impermanence of our loved ones, our heroes, and even our enemies, can only honor that loss by questioning the very purpose of this absurd and beautiful opportunity called existence. 

Even the youngest of Tibetan monks learn to meditate intensely on death and impermanence. Although they believe in an afterlife, the uncertainty of what form that will take gives added weight to the importance of the human experience and living a meaningful life. While it's impossible to know what comes next, I find it practical to hedge my bets. In other words, if there is an afterlife, I hope I will have done enough good in the world to have earned a good rebirth; and if there isn’t, well then I hope I did enough good in the world to have left the place a little better than how I found it. All I know is that my soul, or whatever “stuff” I’m made of, has the opportunity to experience life now — in all its confusing, complex, painful, and messy magnificence. I was sharing with a friend recently that I was feeling guilty that my dad might have waited for me before he finally passed, that I had participated in prolonging his pain. He fought so hard for every breath, just as he had fought so hard for everything in his life, and never, never complained. My friend replied, “life is pain.” And it’s true. Why would I want to take that away? We shouldn’t shun the pain. It’s how we know we’re alive. We simply have to learn to be with the pain, to not be afraid of it, and to embrace both the emotional pain of loss and the physical pain of pushing against our boundaries. Pain is training to live, comfort is… well… the opposite. 

There came a tipping point for me, in the midst of a cycle of sorrow I thought I might never climb out of, when I realized the source of much of my suffering was the unwillingness to accept uncertainty. My whole life I’ve been trying to control, to predict, to keep myself safe — from harm, from making mistakes, from losing people I love — but it’s a rigged game. There is no possibility of controlling these things and there are no winners when you try. Getting what you want only reinforces the delusion that it’s possible to control and that our attachments are worth using all our energy to keep. Targets are good, don’t get me wrong, but in the end, it’s not hitting the targets that matter, it’s the number of arrows you've shot. If you spend too much time waiting, lining up your shot, worrying that you might miss, you will most certainly miss the most important thing of all — you. I’ve realized now that instead of hitting a bullseye, I’d much rather have the target, and everything surrounding it, covered in arrows, broken, backwards, buried. Who knows? I might hit a target I didn’t even see! Didn’t Schopenhauer call that genius? Whether it’s the wind that carries it astray, my own poor aim, or someone else’s arrow, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we shoot. What matters is that we try. There is so little we can really control, perhaps nothing beyond our own experience, and even that would be debated by Pavlov. 

So maybe it’s not so much a lesson I’m looking for as it is a new way of moving through the world. Paying attention to the details but not getting lost in them. Caring about what people feel, not what they think. Doing things today that can be done tomorrow. Striving for the things that matter to me, not what’s written in my programming. Having the self-awareness to question even my strongest beliefs as well as the humility to change them. Facing adversity with vulnerability and compassion, for I am not alone in my fear, but if I run away, I will be. Death, I guess you could say, has planted the seeds to understanding the nature of aliveness. All I can do is water them with my tears and hope that from the darkest shade will grow the most beautiful garden, which one day too will die, making it all the more precious and alive. 

Gates as the Gateway to the Soul

“What is art?”  Anyone who’s ever strolled through a contemporary art gallery, witnessed a magnificent sunset, or stood in smiling awe over a child’s first painting has surely asked this question.  Some go to such lengths as writing books or dissertations, teaching courses or giving lectures, but in the end, in my humble opinion, it's beside the point.  I like to think of art as the expression of living – unique and personal to every individual.  Art can be found in the way we eat, the way we walk, the way we sign our names.  Of course, just because something is called art doesn’t mean it is valued as art, that’s a whole other story.  What makes art valuable is beyond my ability to comprehend, and beyond the level of mind boggling-ness I’m willing to withstand. In certain ways I’ve endured a love/hate relationship with art.  I love the idea of it: the creative expression of an experience, an idea, a feeling, and the mastery of a skill for the sole purpose of human expression.  However, my logical mind gets the best of me at times.  Walking through an exhibit at the Tate Modern Gallery in London, my focus was abruptly drawn from my internal spinning color wheel of death (mac users, you know what i’m talking about) by my friend’s gentle voice saying, “Are you alright?  You don’t look so good.”  I was pale.  No matter how hard I tried, I didn’t get it.  I couldn’t get it, because there was nothing “to get.”  This is a hard concept for someone who likes to understand everything, or at least feel like she does.  My friend, an art school graduate, successfully quelled some of my discomfort by teaching me about the movements that inspired the work and their reactionary roots.  I felt better knowing there was some logical basis for its creation, even if I didn’t know what it was, or if it was even true.  Still, I recognize this as a limitation.  Art is about the experience, about feeling, about connection, about seeing oneself in the creation of another.  It’s not about understanding or knowing why.

Last night I watched a beautiful documentary on two convicted and passionate artists who challenged me to revive my inner artist and accept it for what it is: an experience of awe and magnificence.  Christo and Jeanne-Claude are famously known for their controversial works around the world: the umbrellas (in California and Japan 1984-91), wrapped trees (in Switzerland 1997-98), and Pont Neuf wrapped (in Paris 1975-85), to name a few.  They take no money from sponsorships or donations, each (expensive) project is funded completely by the private sale of Christo’s preliminary paintings and sketches of the project to be, as well as previous paintings and works of art.  Their passion has no rational, no explanation, simply that they want to make it.  And they want to make it so badly that the project that was the subject of the documentary spanned nearly 30 years.

The film itself contained incredible 16mm footage of interviews with New York City officials in the 1970’s, meetings with angry citizens, and many a convicted opposition.  Next to Christo’s broken English and bumbling professor-like nature, the opposing arguments felt violent, irrational, and even mean.  Each person’s vested interests were illuminated and exposed (including the artists themselves), often appearing absurd in the face of the simple and undeniable beauty of the proposed project.  What amazed me most, and what still gives me a chuckle when I think about it, is this statement from one of the artists:

"I have unstoppable urge to do this project. The absolutely irrational, irresponsible, with not any justification.  This project is happening only because the artist likes to have them."

And why not?  The installation was up for two weeks, despite the public's pleas for a longer run, and all the materials were recycled, the park left just the way it was before - though perhaps never to be experienced the same way for those who witnessed The Gates.

I personally wasn’t witness to the event in New York City in 2005, but the film presented half an hour of (cut from an apparent 350 hours of footage) of the event.  Children laughed and played, some called it a big worm.  Tourists took photos, described their joy.  Runners and cyclists completed their usual routines, through the glorious gates.  From the myriad points of view, I got a sense of what it was like; I felt feelings of magnificence and wonder, the kind that art is made to conjure.  Beyond my better judgment, I was deeply moved by the orange colored steel gates with fabric flapping in the wind, the gates with no purpose but to exist, no meaning beyond the vision and perseverance of two human beings.

If you want to read more about the controversy surrounding their creation, here are some articles:

http://www.cbsnews.com/stories/2005/02/11/60minutes/main673489.shtml

http://www.nytimes.com/ref/arts/design/GATES-REF.html

http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/christo.html

If you want to find out more about the documentary filmmaker Antonio Ferrera, check him out here:

http://www.ferrerafilms.com/

rescue me

part of what inspired the thoughts and meanderings contained in the previous post was my seeing the film rescue dawn last night.  werner herzog has never failed to arouse reverence and admiration, but this film is uniquely exceptional.  recounting the struggle and tireless exertion of will of US Navy Pilot Dieter Dengler after his plane is shot down in the Laotian jungle, his story becomes more than a hero's tale, more than one's fight for survival, it's the ultimate example of how one man can push the boundaries of being human, live to tell about it, and experience the joy in what it means to do so.  i don't want to give anything away, but all i can say is i haven't been so deeply moved by a film since, well, since la vie en rose i suppose, but it's right up there with the elephant man or dead man walking. i highly recommend seeing it, especially in the theater if you can.

Rescue Dawn

in the stars

i'm not sure if anyone can relate to this, but sometimes i feel like getting up in the morning is like confronting mount everest - i used to compare this feeling to being covered by the x-ray blanket at the dentist; or sometimes i simply question my direction and the choices i've made in my life so far.  you with me?  and while i think introspection is important and imperative to the evolution of humanity, I think it's a fine line between mindful contemplation and living in the past...  but then i'll have an experience that changes my perception of everything.  if i subscribed to astrological beliefs, i would say the stars are aligned in these moments.  such experiences come in all forms - having a chance encounter with an old friend; reading a book that feels as if it were written to me, for me and only me; absorbing an awe inspiring view of the ocean; having an accident that provokes an evaluation of priorities; watching a film that challenges my beliefs about the world; witnessing the struggle of another and the will exerted in pushing through adversity...  these are but a few examples of things that inspire me. as often as i can, i seek to see and understand the essence of everything that exists in my world.  i think part of understanding ourselves is considering our environment and how we relate to every little detail.  i also believe it is possible to find beauty and magnificence in even the most seemingly benign image, object or act.  and then there are times when i am completely caught off guard by what moves me.  it could the innocence i see in a small boy walking self-consciously, hands shoved in pockets, imitating an oblivious father.  it could be the generosity of a stranger offering their spot in the grocery line, or the humility i feel when i stub my own toe.  it is my impression that it is these simple things that we often overlook that can give us the most insight into what it means to be human.  one such experience occurred recently as i was reading through my fan mail.  [on a side note i would like to apologize to those whose mail i have not yet responded to, i know there are many - i have been occupied with myriad travels and work commitments, but i assure you that your letters are read and greatly appreciated.]  i'm not sure whether it was the accumulation of the correspondence or something about the particular letter i was reading, but i felt a shock of recognition of how we participate in each other's lives to such an explicit degree, and often without any awareness of it.  it's incredible to me that i can do what i love to do and have an impact that reaches across countries, cultures and social demographics.  it's something i've been thinking about a lot lately and part of the reason why it's important to me to express the intricacy of my values and not just those you see on tv.

"A wider of more altruistic attitude is very relevant in today's world.  If we look at the situation from various angles, such as the complexity and inter-connectedness of the nature of modern existence, then we will gradually notice a change in our outlook, so that when we say 'others' and when we think of others, we will no longer dismiss them as something that is irrelevant to us.  We will no longer feel indifferent."— from The Dalai Lama's Book of Wisdom